VOX POPVLI

WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "Forever"

2011-04-19T09:03:00.003+02:00

How much does a man live, after all?
Does he live a thousand days, or one only?
For a week, or for several centuries?
How long does a man spend dying?
What does it mean to say "for ever"?
PABLO NERUDA

He told me to swallow the fear. So i did.

He told me to take a deep breath. So I breathed in, once.

He told me to close my eyes and to think of a happy place. To think of a far-off country that I have never been to, that I did not even know existed. So I did.

To the best of my ability, I did.

He watched me as he slowly chewed his food, mashed it between his perfect row of spotless teeth. Pearls, he called them. Personally, I thought of them as proof of his narcissim. He watched me as I cut the bread, each slice a centimetre thick. No more, because we could not afford it. Not after India lost her job. So I cut, with my tongue between my coffee-stained teeth. And the least he could do was watch and wait to pounce on me when I went out of line. Because he knew that sooner or later I would cut a larger slice for myself to enjoy later in the darkness of my room. Old Mr Pearls just knew.

The waxy pale light's dancing on the back of my palsm. I can see it waltzing with the veins and the mountainous ridges, highlighting my bony knuckles and repulsive fingernails in the darkness of the room. And the crumbs at the foot of the desk, they're accusing me of a guilty addiction. Of numerous addictions, in fact. I don't know how, and I won't know why, but I find myself as a worn woman with nothing to do except to eat, drink and smoke. And to sit still in the confinements of this room during the darkest hours of the world, when all are dead and quiet. I've resined to the fact that I have forgotten what it's like to dream. I can barely remember the days when I'd close my eyes and open them as if eight hours had been miraculously shortened into the space of five minutes. I can't understand anymore why I'd wanted the night to be longer. It's the darkest time of your life, when ghosts come out to haunt you. My ghost is sitting here, in this room.

My brother died on a cold Wednesday night. Thursday's morning sky was of the clearest blue imaginable; of the bluest poppy you can imagine. And there I was, oblivious to nature's wonders, reading his words on my lap as he faded with each line that I read. In the short span of a few minutes, he was gone from this world. A handwritten note was all that he left behind. I crumpled the letter that same night and fed it to a hungry gas stove. I ahd my first cup of tea in many years, and my last. I have regretted that cup of tea to this day; but the letter is gone and no matter how much I want to see it again, my brother's thick, bold writing will be lost for ever.

He's over there, on the bed, playing with the stitch work I tried to finish with my arthritic hands. He's undoing it, working to hard to undo the work of years. He doesn't have much time, I can feel the dawn coming like I can feel my bones creaking when I shift in my seat. Poor old soul. He watches me as I rip off a piece of bread with my teeth, as I work my jaws like a cow chews on cud, as I gulp it down with milk, and as I scramble to repeat the process again. He's tireless and patient this time. he knows it's nearly time. Old Mr Pearls just knows.

I let him out a few hours ago. He's been my loyal companion ever since Landon walked out of my life, but I had to make him go. I couldn't bear to let him see me stretched out like this. India will take care of him; she loves him just as much as I do. So there you go. I'm hearing the wind rush through the treetops, as full of life as once I was too. Leave me in peace to take my time to reach that door I can dimly see. Let me remember those words I burned long ago, to see the smudged ink as he wrote out his last words to me.

He told me to swallow the coward's fear of happiness. So I did.

He told me to take a deep breath. So I breathed in, just once.

He told me to close my eyes and think of a happy place; to remember it, because I would find myself there one day. So I did.

To the best of my ability, I did.

WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "Butterflies"

2011-04-19T08:20:00.003+02:00

"Look! See how it's pretty and innocent, how it's sunbathing in the morning light... Look at it, look! Oh! ...It's taken off. We scared it. It's gone. But wasn't that marvellous while it lasted? Just purely beautiful. Did you se?"

"Follow the light and don't let anything stop you. It's so important that you get there, do you understand? Listen to me, please. Whatever happens make sure you get there before morning, before the light is put out and you're lost. Do you see?"

"I had a dream last night," I said quietly to my plate of eggs, "about Anna." I heard a fork clatter to the ground and somebody apologising profusely, while the rest of the table was drenched in silence. I felt the sweat trickle down my temples, but did not dare wipe it with my fingers. My heart beat louder with each tick of the grandfather clock, and my cheeks burned holes through my face. And suddenly, the room filled with noise again, just as it was before. Just as if I had never spoken. I left the breakfast table as quietly as I could in the ensuing chaos, but I felt their gaze on my back all the same.

Anna often visited me in my dreams. I never told anyone of our encounters, mostly because my family simply did not want to know, and also because she was not part of our family anymore. In my opinion, she never was a Cutmore in the first place. She was born with a perfectly angelic face, unlike any other in our family, but she was given a curse. While others could marvel at her lovely appearance, she would never know the extend of her beautiy. She would not know the meaning of colour. She would not know the importance of a mirror. She would not know the trick of a gallgown. Her green eyes would never be put to use.

The reason for my conduct that particular morning was desperation. The moment my eyes had opened after that dream, I had known that a certain finality had come upon her. Whether Anna was alive I did not know. But it was absolutely that I would never see her again. And that broke my heart.

There was once a land of thorns far away. The skies were grey and cloudy, and it rained all day. The palaces and towers were all deserted, except one. A lonely woman lived, ugly and angry. She lived simply and picked berries from low bushes and mushrooms from the damp ground. She despised people and chased travellers away, whipping them, cursing and hurling names at them. One day while she was doing just the same to a little girl, she stopped. She saw a white butterfly rest on the girl's hair and fly away. She helped the girl to her feet and fed her, nursed the wounds of her own whip.

The woman changed into a better person with the help of the little girl. The girl grew into a young woman and fell in love. The ugly woman, an old and blind woman now, made her a delicate dress out of thorns and prepared her for her new life. Before the girl left, she told her to be careful when she walked between the thorns to arrive at her new home before dark. They embraced one last time before the girl walked into the maze of thorns.

After a while, the woman realised that the girl was actually her daughter, the daughter she had had before she was ugly and angry. The daughter she had seen walk into the thorns one day many years ago, and never come back. Her eyesight returned with this revelation, but it was too late. She searched day and night for her little girl who was not a little girl anymore. She asked the boy, hoping against hope, if her girl had reached his house. After many months of searching in the thorn-infested land, she had no choice but to return to her tower.

As the old woman slept that night, she saw her daughter in a dream. She was sitting barefoot in her dress of thorns at the centre of a lush garden. She had berries in her lap and she was laughing and pointing at the flowers, exclaiming over one that had turned into a butterfly and had flown away. She turned her emerald eyes on the woman, and smiled. "Did you see?"

But, as I said, it was only a dream. Just a simple, little dream.

WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "Dreams"

2011-04-19T08:06:00.003+02:00

I never wanted it to be like this.

Never would I want harm to befall my friends. They are my 'safe house' -my haven.

Monday morning. The frigid wind biting at my trench coat. This was it. This was my time to prove to the world that maybe, just maybe, I could do something noteworthy and take my place in history.

I entered the dilapidated ice rink to the sound of Kyle's voice.

"James, over here."

Advancing to his position I quickly recognize Tom and Bover. Standing huddled against the pallid wall they spoke in hushed voices.

"We can do this." I said nervously.

Bover leaned over and picked up a St. Anne's sport bag. Quite ironic in this situation. In the bag there lay to AK 47's, two 9mm's and four masks. The masks were abominable, a glance would send shivers down your spine.

Tom led the way to the grey and decrepit van. As we got in, we put on our masks avoiding the opportunity for suspicion. Kyle drove to 4th and Abbey, while in the back, we silently checked and rechecked our firearms.

This was it.

We jumped out and darted for the doors that were slightly agape. Out of the corner of my left eye I observed Kyle, spinning on his left hell and discharging three cold bullets into the security guard. Opposing my instinct to freeze I kept on sprinting to the vault. Bover was there already, emptying substantial amounts of newly pressed Benjamin Franklins into his gaping bag. I got to work hastily and efficiently, grabbing all I could and shoving it into my own brown bag.

Running of the bank we were confronted. Rapidly we pulled out our firearms and began firing deadly bullets towards them. The flashing blue and white lights of their cars obstructed our shooting and movement, making it difficult to concentrate.

I heard this cacophony of bullets and stun grenades. I saw Tom, stunned, stand up. A bullet pierced his bald skull, silently to me, and he dropped to the hard floor.

I dashed to him; ducking and diving trying to not get hit by the shots. He is gone. But I already knew that. The thought was just impalpable.

Putting aside my feelings of grief and sadness, I got back to work. It was me, Bover and Kyle. kyle and Bover were side by side emptying their AK ammunition clips into the waiting officers. Kyle dropped his last ammunition clip onto the pavement. Leaning down to pick it up, he was exposed through a tiny gap betwen a cop car and a large blue post box. To my horror I witnessed one round get through the opening and hit him square in the chest.

Bover exclaimed loudly and rushed over to Kyle's position. Kyle, still conscious, threw his AK, with the ammunition clip, to me. I grabbed it and ran to them to cover for them. Bover was distraught. Kyle had been his mate since they were in primary school.

Fuelled by anger and vengeance, Bover grabbed the AK out of my hand, put it into his left and then took his own in his right. Shouting, he jumped up and fired the last of the bullets into the crowd of policemen.

Staring at him in total shock I tried to pull him back down to the ground. It was too late. One shot after the other struck his bloodied chest.

It was over. I knew it was.

I rose from my hunched position with my hands in the air. The firing ceased. Scores of people sprinted towards me.

I never wanted it to be like this.

WRITING COMPETITION: Poetry "The Beast Within"

2011-04-19T08:03:00.001+02:00

It sits and hides, waiting

Its faint snarls can barely be heard
It quietly watches the world,
While it falls to pieces,
Not daring to show itself.

Hitler condemns the Jews
And the beast lifts its head
The atomic bomb explodes,
And the beast straightens out its back
Rwanda goes up in flames
And the beast opens its eyes

But yet it still sits and hides, waiting

It shakes its head knowingly
Wondering where it all went wrong
Looking at this path of destruction
Created by the sufferers themselves

The twin towers crumble in vain
And the beast smiles smugly
A hole forms in the ozone layer
And the beast clenches its fists
The world turns a blind eye to this horror
And the beast gets ready to attack

The beast stands proud and tall
And stares human kind in the face
It laughs mockingly, "Look at me,
And see what you have created."

WRITING COMPETITION: Poetry "Love"

2011-04-19T08:01:00.003+02:00

The way they look
Deeply into the others eyes
The smiles they give
That light up the sky

The gentle summer breeze
By a picnic on a river
How the guy gives her his jacket
When she starts to shiver

The way the stars
Light up the night
The way her hair
Reflects the light

The way the birds
Come out and sing
How it's all so perfect
Everything

Then the first kiss
So soft so quick
All the joys of love
It makes me sick!

WRITING COMPETITION: Poetry "Freedom"

2011-04-19T08:00:00.001+02:00

Crisp smell of morning air
countless scents enveloping me
Running through the long wet wheat
Dew dripping down racing legs
blissfully unaware
of the world

Purple blur soaring through the air
Touching the softest clouds
Dipping, diving
Shadow on my head
As the eagle calls

Heat of the day creeping
Closer on what is mine
Tasks await to be completed
The urgency of it all returns

Wakening me
to reality

WRITING COMPETITION: Poetry "A fence"

2011-04-19T07:57:00.001+02:00

A barrier that deflects pain
Always surrounded by fences
Physically, Mentally and Emotionally
It is the devil's beady eye, searching for a halo in between the mesh of lies
Useless and disappointing
It is a rose, people think it's there for a good purpose, security and beauty,
but then you take a good close look and the thorns prick you.
Dichotomizes beauty from pain

It is the structure that ends the so-called unlimited freedom
It keeps those unwanted secrets hidden beneath the surface
Hard to find and hard to release
A fence may be a sense of security
One step out of it and you are exposed
Everyone knows you, they know your history
And yet, people always want what they know they can't have.

An infatuation
People longing to be on the other side, where the grass is much greener.
False hope
It is a body with no soul
An abandoned baby
A heart with no life

An idealogical divide between right and wrong
Between
Love and hate
Life or death

WRITING COMPETITION: Poetry "Lad"

2011-04-19T07:52:00.002+02:00

He finds it amusing you see,
a game for his ingenious mind.
All the drinking, smoking, partying,
a mere activity for a bored soul.

"I'm a true lad," he'll try telling you,
"a rumpus young Pom!"
His exterior will fit this definition perfectly,
like a key in the right lock.

But, if you apply this word "lad" to his interior,
you will find that not only does the key not fit,
but there is more than one door.

This "lad" is not nearly,
as simplistic as the word suggets.
This "lad's" interior is a maze of passages and alleyways.
This "lad" likes to read, has a brain, has a hert.
This "lad" is not what he seems.

So finally the question is raised.
Is he- a lad that cannot be tamed?
Or is he a lad at all?

Die Rol Van Vroue In Die Samelewing deur J Lategan

2011-03-07T11:10:00.002+02:00

In ons moderne samelewing is die vrou selfstandig, selfversekerd en sy bevorder haar loopbaan. 'n Paar eeue gelede sou 'n vrou ween die vrye denke as hekse vermoor word.

Vroue het 'n spesifieke rol in die wereld gehad. Een van die vrou se rolle was om kuns te inspireer, om 'n muse te wees. Die bekendste is sekerlik Beatrice Portinari, die vrou wat Dante Alighieri se lewenswerke - La Divina Commedia en La Vita Nuova - geinspireer het.

Dante het Beatrice die eerste keer gesien toe hy nege jaar oud was. Hy het haar eenmaal aanskou en was op haar verlief. Dante het sy hele lewe lank vir Beatrice byna aanbid. Volgens La Vita Nuova het Dante Beatrice net drie keer in sy lewe gesien.

La Divina Commedia is begin toe Dante tussen 35 en 40 jaar oud was. Selfs toe het dit vir Dante gevoel asof beatrice hom dophou en geestelik lei. Sy moes dus 'n enorme impak op Dante gehad het, dat hy haar so onthou het.

Die feit maark Beatrice onmiddelik anders as ander muses. Gewoonlik is die muse se enigste invloed 'n Latynse "illa" voor die gedig; of 'n "laat ons begin, volgens u wil" aan die begin van 'n epos. Maar beatrice was meer as slegs inspirasie. Sy word die onderwerp van Dante we werk - veral in La Vita Nuova.

Dante se sogenaamde aanbidding van Beatrice word in Paradisio, die derde deel van La Divina Commedia duidelik. Beatrice lei vir Dante na God. Dit word beskou as 'n metafoor wat daarop dui dat Dante God gevind het deur sy liefde of agting vir Beatrice.

Die kwessie is dan dus: wat was Beatrice se rol as muse en waarom het sy Dante so sterk beinvloed?

Alhoewel Dante voor die Nederlandse digter, Jacques Perk geleef het, beskryf Perk die Muse in sy gedigte baie goed.

Perk roep na Skoonheid en se dat haar naam heilig is. Perk haal dan die Bybel aan en beveel dat Skoonheid se wil geskied en dat haar heerskappy kom. Die opsomming van hoe die kunstenaar die muse beskou, word aan die einde van die derde strofe gestel; hy se dat, in vergelyking met die Skoonheid, aanbid die aarde geen ander god nie!

Dit is presies hoe Dante oor Beatrice gevoel het, maar hy stel nie eksplisiet dat beatrice aantreklik of slim is nie. is dit dan blote toeval dat Perk deur Mathilde Thomas geinspireer is? Perk het tog meer kontag met Mathilde gehad as Dante met Beatrice - dit verduidelik moontlik waarom hy eksplisiet oor haar skoonheid en wysheid skryf.

Dante word beskou as een van die wereld se beste skrywers en die Divina Commedia as sy heel beste werk. Dit is duidelik dat Dante die Commedia nie sonder Beatrice se inspirasie kon skryf nie. Mens kan dan aflei dat die muse se rol in die samelewing een van die heel belangrikstes is. As Dante nie sonder sy muse kon skryf nie (en Perk ook nie), sal daar dus sonder muses absolutt geen goeie en hoe kuns bestaan nie!

Een van die belangrikste elemente van enige kultuur is hul kuns. As 'n kultuur bestudder word, word die kuns ook bespreek. As kuns 'n fundementele deel van kultuur is, en as kuns nie sonder 'n muse kan bestaan nie, is dit dan vanselfsprekend dat 'n kultuur - 'n samelewing - nie sonder 'n muse en dus vroue kan funksioneer nie.

In die bekende Engels- en Nederlandstalige skrywers, Shakespeare en Nijhoff, se werke, word daar nie na 'n muse verwys soos in Dante en perk s'n nie. Maar tog is daar wel 'n vroulike invloed in party van hulle sonnette. Die sonnette handel oor die ordinere, nie-goddelike vrou as muse. Die werke herinder mens aan die feit dat Beatrice en Mathilde ook maar normale vroue was. Dante en Perk het die vroue, hul muses, in hulle literatuur verhef tot goddelikheid.

Die vrou, selfs die ordinere vrou, speel duidelik 'n groot rol in die samelewing. Kuns en literatuur is vandag in ons post-modernistiesie wereld nog steeds relevant en die vrou se invloed dus belangrik. Daar is tog agter elke man...

Christendom En Islam deur J Lategan

2011-03-07T10:58:00.002+02:00

Christendom en Islam is albei gelowe. In ons moderne samelewing is die geloof in God, of 'n god, as argais en irrelevant beskou; en tog is die grootste invloed op ons lewe, die Verenigde State van Amerika, 'n trots Christelike land. Veral na die elfde September 2001 is Islam in Westerse samelewing as 'n "boosheid," 'n "contra-Christelike geloof" of "terroristiese groep" beskou. Moslems is dus, ongelukking, aan stereotipering en diskriminasie blootgestel. In hierdie opstel word die feit dat Christendom en Islam eintlik baie eenders is bespreek.

Die sentrale idee, of "vereiste" vir albei die gelowe is dat mens in God glo. Vele mense is van die mening dat Christene in God glo en Moslems in Allah of 'n "ander god." In alle werklikheid is Alla die Standaard Arabiese woord vir "God", die selfde God waarin Christene glo.

Daar is vele Christelike denominasies en daar is wel verskille in wat hul glo en hoe hulle kerkdienste verloop. maar alle Christendom is in 'n paar konsepte gebaseer. Die konsepte word in the Geloofsbelydenis van Nicea uitgele. Die eerste, en sekerlik die belangrikste reel is: Ons glo in een God, die almagtige Vader, die Skepper van die hemel en aarde, van alle sigbare en onsigbare dinge.

In die Inleiding tot die Koran staa: Alle heerlikehid aan Allah die Allerhoogste, (hy is) vol gendade. Alles is deur hom geskape. Allah word ook in die eerste dele van die Koran nie "Allah" of "God" genoem nie, Hy word na verwys as "Onderhouder van die werelde," "Heer" en "Skepper" -byna die selfdeas in Die Bybel.

Die hoof verskil tussen Christene en ander gelowe, insluitend islam, is Jesus Christus, waarvandan die woord "Christen" kom.

Christene glo dat Jesus "deur die heilige Gees uit die maagd Maria vlees geword [het]: Hy het mens geword." Moslems glo ook dat Maria maagd was toe Jesus deur God se woord aan haar gebore is, maard ie dat Hy die Seun van god is nie. Beide gelowe stel dat Jesus deur God gestuur is om Sy woord aan Israel te verkondig en is die vermoe gegee om wonderwerke uit te voer.

Volgens Christen tekste, is Jesus "vir ons gekruisig; Hy het gely en is begrawe," en die heel belangrikste, "op die derde dag he Hy...opgestaan en na die Hemel opgevaar."
Moslems glo dat Jesus nie gekruisig is nie en dat Hy nie eers dood is nie. islam tekste stel wel dat Jesus hemel toe opgevaar het en dat hy nog steeds lewendig was toe dit gebur het.

Vir Christene is Jesus die Verlosser en God se Seun. Volgens islam was Jesus niks meer as 'n profeet nie. Daar word baie in die Koran na Jesus verwys, en al kon hy wonderwerke uitvoer, glo Moslems dat Hy maar net 'n man was. Mohammad is Islam se hoof profeet.

Mohammed het openbaringe van God ontvang en dit neergeskryf. die skrifte is die Koran en islam is deur Mohammad met die Koran gevesting.

Die Koran is nie, en mag nie, vertaal word die - nie eers in die moderne Arabiese variante nie. wanneer Moslems bid gebruik hulle Klassieke, of "Koraniese", Arabies. Dit is amper presies die teenoorgestelde van die Christen Bybel. Die Bybel is nie deur 'n enkel mens geskryf nie en nie in een enkel taal nie. Die Bybel is 'n versameling tekste wat in Latyn, Grieks, Aramees en Hebreeus geskryf is en is vandag die mees vertaalde boek.

Tenspyte van die ooreenkomste tussen die twee gelowe, tenspyte van die feit dat albei gelowe in die selfde God glo, is daar eindloos konflik tussen Christene en Moslems. En tog staan daar in die Koran dat "almal wat in die Koran glo, en diegene wat Joodse skrifte volg, en Christene en Sabiers - en enige iemand wat in God glo...sal vanaf God hulle belonging kry; en hulle sal geen vrees he nie."

Was Apartheid A Holocaust by N Smith

2011-03-07T10:37:00.003+02:00

The word Apartheid is an Afrikaans word directly translated into the concept of 'separateness'. Apartheid can be defined as a policy or system of segregation or discrimination on grounds of race. This is similar to ehd iscrimination that happened against the Jews, homosexuals and other discriminated parties in the Holocaust.

The National Party in the 1948 election adopted "Apartheid" as a slogan. A slogan is a phrase used in advertising to catch attention, like the Nazi's used propaganda to sell their ideas to the German nation and divert the mindset of the public. Is this not similar to what happened in South Africa?

Human rights commission reported to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission submitted in 1977 that 7 000 people of colour died during Apartheid. From 1990 to 1994 14 000 people of colour died. A fruther 17 4220 died in relation to Apartheid from 1994 to 2000. Even though Apartheid had ended.

Juliette Pieres found similarities between the Holocaust and Apartheid in her new book. A few examples of the Apartheid legislations that are parallel to the Nuremburg laws are as follows:

Marriages between Jews and Germans were forbidden as it was in South Africa with the mixed marraiges act that stated that white people were not allowed to marry people of other races.

Although the NP did not envisage a specific hair and eye colour and physique as the perfect race like Hitler envisaged the Aryans, it is apparent that this law expressed the NP's feelings that they felt that white people were the perfect race and that people of colour were inferiour.

The group areas act brought about physical separation between races by creating the homelands whereas the Nazis placed Jews and other discriminated groups in concentration camps.

People of colour and Jews were both exempt from public beaches, benches and voting. They were not allowed to go to the same schools and unviersities as Aryans or white people. People of colour were only seen as fit for labour that does not require any skill. The same was principle was applied to the Jews, as they were exempt from the workforce.

Juliette Peires states that ther was no attempt "to impose anything like a final soclution" during Apartheid. One can say that less people were killed in the Apartheid than in the Holocaust but is that not all due to the leader? A strong leader like Hitler was able to get the public rearing for action with his strong speeches whereas the NPs leader was not as strong as Hitler and not get as far as quickly. The mere fact that Apartheid took so much longer to bring down that the Holocaust and that Hitler went so much further than the NP shows that Hitler had the support of nations to put his laws into place and murder 6 million Jews.

Although more people were killed in the Holocaust it does not mean that this even in History was more devastating than Apartheid. The principle of both Apartheid and the Holocaust remains the same; two government bodies desperate for power and recognition from the public.

Think of all the people who didn't die in Apartheid. Do you think life was easy for them? And what about the generations to follow? To this day we still suffer from the effects of Apartheid. Mass deaths may sound a lot more threatening but surely living in torture is far worse? Because of one decision gnerations to come will pay for the mistakes that were made.

Valentine's Dance Feb 2011 by A Hess

2011-03-07T10:25:00.002+02:00

What a night of Romance, Dancing and very loud pumping music bursting out of every speaker, the Valentine's Dance was a night of dry ice and flashing lights to remember.

From the romance of Thursday's balloons and flowers being given out all the way back to the distance memory of the Bachelor and Bachelorette competition on Tuesday, the week of valentine's was a week of love. At the dance the visuals were amazing, you walked through the white arch entrance with little red hearts all around it all the way along a red carpet that made you feel like you were walking into an exclusive club. Then you got to step into the dance area, a wave of music hit you, the DJ was up on the stage controlling the music for the dancers below in the dry ice. The tuckshop was constantly bursting with people who wanted something to drink after jumping and dancing around for a good hour.

In the middle of the night the Bachelor and Bachelorette were announced. As Daniel baker and margaret Scott got their pink, fluffy light-up crowns they desceneded onto the dance floor for a spotlight dance to some slightly softer, more romantic music that soon all other couples join in. The hall was no longer our school hall but a ballroom where a mass of couples were spinning eacho ther around gracefully to music. A fairytale. The girls were dressed beautifully in a variety of colours and styles of dresses and even the guys dressed up for the evening. The entire room was filled with princes whisking their princesses away to happily ever after as the couples continued to dance.

The night ended with a room full of bodies moving on what seemed to be a floor made of clouds, lights dancing around them.

The Sentence by N Smith

2011-03-07T08:36:00.001+02:00

Burning tongues of fire lick at my feet,
I turn my head to the quickening beat.
Cold fingers of ice caress my knee,
I look down, but there's nothing to see.

The feathers of touch tickle my soul,
Aroused I inquire; the beats grow weary.
Softly and quickly my arms turn to lead,
I ponder over all that I've said.

Questions and statements all mixed in with hate,
Depressed and disheartened I embrace my fate.
Moments of silence creep in with the cold,
While fiery glares keep my life on hold.

With desperate pleas I lay down the truth,
I slowly bring forth the sickening proff.
Sadly, alas, the gesture's too late,
My life has been captured by sugary bait.

WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "The Dream Giver"

2011-03-07T08:25:00.003+02:00

I spend my time swooping over rooftops, through bedroom windows and down chimney pipes to get to you. I climb slowly towards your head, carefully, with anticipation. Who knows what I will find, if I manage to find anything at all.

Your minds work in mysterious ways, ways that I will never understanding even though they are part of my daily life. Although, i do not think you could say that I am really alive, I would say it is more of an existence. I live an exciting and invigorating existence but an existence all the same. You on the other hand life a full and adventurous life. You wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night. You get to eat meals and use the bathroom. "What?" you are probably thinking, "Our lives are much more exciting than that!" But you see when you cannot perform these strange acts, they start to fascinate you.

I am what you call the 'Dream Cather', but I see myself as more of a 'Dream Giver'. I visit you at night to sift through your thoughts until I come to the one which has subconsciously been occupying your mind. I then gently coax it forward into your conscious thoughts, where I let it take on a mind of its own, as it forms a dramatic and fanciful dream. These dreams can range from nightmares to the stuff that daydreams are made of but for me the most rewarding dreams are those that make you smile in your sleep. To see a tickle of a smile creep across your face until it is a fully-fledged grin is something to behold, something I am blessed enough to see often.

I take pride in the fact that I do not get attached to the humans I visit, I do my job and then I leave. That all changed on a dark, starless, Winter's night. I had struggled to get into the man's head because he had obviously not wanted visitors that night. He was trying to shut out the bogeyman. This is the only downfall of my job; I do not get to choose what people dream about and yet I have to watch their pain through the nightmares. This particular man had had a hard life filled with turmoil and now he had found hismelf in an old, rusted warehouse, all alone. his anguish and pain was evident on his face as his nightmares played out in his mind. I sifted though his thoughts, desperately, hoping to find that he had a happy memory to use as his dream, but I could not find one. All I found was despair and turmoil. A pot of mashed up emotions and terrifying experiences!

And I wept. For the first time in my existence I bowed my head and wept. As I looked at that poor man I felt that there was only one thing to do and that one things broke all the rules. I sifted through my bank of memories from people's minds all over the world until I came to one filled with hope and love, and then I did the unthinkable, I planted it in his mind. I put it right there in his dream space and stood back and watched as it flitted across his vision. And then it came, the best part of all, the smile.

I still do not know if that was the right thing to do, if it changed his life for the better or not but all I know is that for the first time, in a long time, he had a moment of calm in the storms of his life.

Sins Of Us by S Swart

2011-03-07T08:23:00.000+02:00

With the way the world turns, the way that it's spun
I fear for the lives of everyone the way it's done.
We had the wisdom of what to come it was said,
Natural enemies' fire and ice become surrounds for our bed.
If we burn in the fire of the sun or drown in melted ice, it's the sins of us
If we die from under a gun or starve from the dry earth it's the sins of us.
GOD save us from what I've done we're just waiting for the ends
Where we go next is Your choice it all depends.
We suffocate from air that once was so pure some of us tried,
But they wouldn't face the truth they just blocked and lied.
For the last time our leaders will speak and recount every war
The earth's beauty was not to be taken for granted or fought anymore.
The ocean is now as dry as rust
No such life from the sins of us.

Freedom by S Storey

2011-03-07T08:21:00.002+02:00

Five hundred years of stone-faced wall
Always new rules to install
Soffocating my smothered soul
I want to fightthe curbed control

But I cannot find the strength
I am weak from the restraint
my heart beats faster
my spirit is pale and faint

i stand on the loose bricks
twenty storeys high
wind rustling my hair
i take the plunge

the fall is my last
sense of
freedom

Boarders Get It Right by P Viljoen

2011-03-07T08:16:00.002+02:00

This is indeed a year for breaking the old and moulding the new, here at Somerset College we have a long-standing opinion which never publically voiced: Day scholars are actually amazingly jealous of the Boarders.

Now if you ever say this in front of said "day scholar" you will be given plenty of arguments and reasons as to why this is absolutely not true (denial0, and for most of their reasons I would agree, being a boarder sounds like a hard life, but they never mention the one resounding fact which makes a boarding house that much more appealing.

It is the fact that at the end of your five years at college you leave the school, taking with you whatever you have gained (if anything) from your five years of education. The question never answered by day boys and girls is "What do I leave behind?"

Those privileged enough to say they are from Somerset College boarding houses can tell you the answer. Of course each boarder leaves behind a puzzle piece of this legacy but this year's matric boarders are paving the way for setting new and wholesome traditions and raising the standards to new, even more yellow, heights.

The first weekend of term saw the matrics and grade 8s spending a whole weekend together where mentees were shown the ropes. Much bonding took place (helped along by the duct-tape in the three-legged race). Never before in my five years in these houses have I seen a grade 9 and matric group interact so closely -we warn the school that this is a grade 8 group to keep your eye on for great things.

The boarders are doing things right and as testimony to this Helderberg is already working towards winning their spirit for the grade 8 gala, the interhouse athletics overall as well as the interhouse tennis.

The boarders are not only creating tradition and pride in their own house but challenge the rest of the school to follow their example... if they can.

Valentine's Day by N Smith

2011-03-07T08:11:00.002+02:00

Crowds of anxious girls huddle together in small clusters, united for one sole purpose. Suppressed feelings bubble to the surface and boil over at the anticipation of what is to come; the thought of a gift from that special someone, a friend, a loved one, a secret admirier. For a second the crowd is hushed while they await the first receiver, and then from there on the procedure continues like clockwork.

We've all witnessed it, been subject to its wonders, but has Valentine's Day gotten out of control? No longer is it just a day to celebrate our loved ones, but also our friends and those we desperately wish to impress in the hope of starting new friendships, and that is all okay, but it has gotten out of hand and is now just a day to show off our wealth, whether financial or in the nubmer of friends we have.

People prance around in their pinks, reds and whites, fallen into a love coma where all sensibility is lost to the antics of Valentine's Day. And what about the cost? Is your love or friendship worth more if the price tag is more impressive? What happened to simple cards with words of affection? The truth is that the effort is simply non-existent. Why waste your time spending hours making cards for your friends and lvoed one, when you can flash your cash in their faces?

It's okay to spend money and appreciate your loved ones, but please, get your motives straight! On a whole we have become too wrapped up in materialistic possessions, cold, hard possessions that neither love nor feel emotion. The best path to take to impress someone is not via your wallet. It comes straight from the depths of your heart.

What A Woman Needs by S Linkov

2011-02-09T20:44:00.002+02:00

Diamonds are forever
They cut her and they burn,
Singe unwanted wishes,
Spear what dares to yearn.

A necklace is a noose
She fits around her sin
So that when it tightens
It will not spoil her skin.

Dresses twist her figure
Into something more
A goddess or a sinner
Whichever they ask for.

A handbag is a darkness
A darkness she can tame,
So that when they purge her
She may keep the blame.

Shoes train her to stand
When she wants to fall
Blisters keep her ready
To stand against them all.

Make-up covers bruises
Mascara catches tears
Varnish soothes bitten nails
And love, it kills the years.

Love by A Hess

2011-02-09T20:42:00.002+02:00

The way they look
Deeply into the others' eyes
The smile they give
That lights up the sky

The gentle summer breeze
By a picnic on a river
How the guy gives her his jacket
When she starts to shiver

The way the stars
Light up the night
The way her hair
Reflects the light

The way the birds
Come out and sing
How it's all so perfect
Everything

Then the first kiss
So soft so quick
All the joys of love
It makes me sick!

Dead Girl To Dying Girl by S Linkov

2011-02-09T20:38:00.002+02:00

Still your voice in asking where I speak from
What skies are here, is not for you to know.
What depths below, and what the kingdom
That bids me lay this rose upon your woe?

Your fallen tresses' gentleness of rose-gold
The ash a mourner scattered on your shroud.
These ivory lips, jewel-houses weeping sold
Unto Her, Whose scythe shines darkly proud.

And even in your cradle, you were weeping
A woman's passion bound with baby's cry.
Father's hoary head, and Mother sleeping,
A candle to kill moths, and a Bible to deny.

And Youth had not a garland to beguile you,
And the clouds had not a single drop of rain.
Your tears fell, and mistaking them for dew
You sprouted, blossomed in the soil of pain.

You sang where every voice was screaming,
You danced, obscured by cruel electric light.
You may forget how you fell into dreaming
Still you rose, and in your heart the fight...

And on this whitest altar you fell daunted
The worm he smiled, and laid disease's pall
On the heart unloved and shadow-haunted,
Your feathers fell, and Winter smothered all.

So take this hand and wander into stillness
For there, we know, the great is not in vain.
There we wait to wash your wings of illness,
For She has come to reap Her tainted grain.

A Love Song by S Linkov

2011-02-09T20:31:00.002+02:00

Follow me tonight.
Let us flow through backwater streets,
Where lampposts spill puddles of light,
Where the longing heart silently beats,
Let us find an empty cafe,
Order a corner table.
Let us shelter ourselves there, till day
Leads our woes back to their stable.
Let the lurid signs burn away,
Let the voices throng through the cable
Of the two-penny telephone.

We have, in our time alone

Rehearsed our birthdates and names,
Learnt to wear our faces in frames,
Trained our hellos and goodbyes,
Dug graves for the world in our eyes,
Cast locks and keyes for our tongues,
Cut them safes in between our lungs,
Sewn bullet-proof vests for our hearts,
Poisoned the tips of love-darts...

We no longer pose a danger to society!
Come evening, dear, they're setting us free!

Yet we rise with so little time!
Our lives are nothing but dust.
Dust that loved, that paid a dime
To clean old shackles of rust.
When we are gone
Still the lampposts will bleed
Light where the day is done,
Still the seas will recede
Then bring in our sorrows again.
This city will always exist,
Morning and night will remain.
Was there something we missed?
Is there anything left to achieve?
Who have we killed, and kissed?
Are there any lies left to believe?

Will I fall as a queen or a slave?
Answer me in dew on my grave.

But life is not over yet!
We have time to love and to hate.
Time to remember, time to forget.
Time to pray and time to wait.
Time to watch time fly.
Time to live, and time to die.

Time to fight like dogs over our daily bread.

There are places where we do not dare to tread
Around the edges of a bright new world we toil
Fear-maddened animals, forever ready to recoil.

Duckling by S Nakada

2011-02-09T20:29:00.001+02:00

He never knew why,
'cause others saw.
But why should he know
when it didn't do difference?

But as time ticked and flew-crawled by; he
uncovered the core of
acapella life.
With waves of emanating-dislike
-for himself- society and himself-enormous-
he buried himself alive.
No more to be.

Now he drags and lurching-crawls,
longing-long love, longing-long life,
realising abrupt time.
Now he knows better than
listen himself-society talk,
when himself-miniscule knew truth.
Beauty is inside.

His Walk by S Nakada

2011-02-09T20:18:00.002+02:00

The white lillies yield to the wind and hang their heads, acknowledging the passing of a hero. They seem to want to scatter as strong gusts overwhelm the wreath, and as it finally takes off only to land some footfalls away, the sweet scent envelopes me. Farewell, my senses hear. Joy be unto you. I begin to hear the first chords of a forgotten melody, the lyrics beckoning me to a life not unknown.

My father once told me to think of life as a bridge that we all must cross, that even if the crossing is painful and long, the banks of the river on the far side gets closer with each step. He told me to look back once in a whiile, to see the progress I have made. I remember that night as we sat on the roof and he told me never to forget my past and the roots from which I came. I listened quietly until he made me promise.

"Do you understand, Margarid? Our people have been persecuted since the dawn of Christianity because we were the first to accept what others would not. Your grandparents were murdered for belonging to the motherland. Promise me, promise me you'll never forget who you are." He sang me a song afterwards. He was an excelled singer, his tongue expertly rolling the words in his mouth, taking me to that strange land in the East. I have not set foot on my father's beloved country to this day, yet I feel as if I belong to its intricate story.

He was one of the lucky ones. I think it was partly his stubbornness that kept him alive. After all, he was only a teenager who wanted to see the world and live. He wanted to be a musician and travel the globe with his friend. He wanted to know what being rich felt like, wanted the experience of spending money on useless objects just because he could. He wanted to see tigers in India and the bull fights in Spain. He wanted to learn to swim. But I think it was mostly the will to see his father again that kept him walking. The possibility of seeing those wise eyes woke him each morning and allowed his legs to move forwards, although it seemed to him as though he was floating above the sand rather than dragging his feet. By the time he reached Aleppo his mother's body had long been left behind, as so many others' had. His sister Anahit - to whom, according to my father, I am identical - died three weeks after their arrival. And afterwards, when he did not find his father's name on the list of survivors of those who were deported to Turkey, he was forced to learn the fact that his life had been changed drastically and that nothing would ever be the same. He grew harsh and cold living with his aunt during his last years in Armenia.

He stepped on a boat on a cold, foggy morning of 1920 after a breakfast of porridge and stale bread. He and his cousin Hagop both kissed his aunt goodbye and left Armenia behind without a backward glance.

I watch as one of the lillies frees itself from the tangle of leaves and stems. As I bend to pick it up, somebody gently rests their hand on my back. It is my mother, a pale woman by nature, but all the more paler today. Not a single teardrop has escaped her eyes, she shed all of hers a week ago. She is responsible for breaking my father's cemented shell, for teaching him to be what he forgot to be. I stand here now, facing her, and see her pain-filled eyes, but also a sense of serenity and acceptance. I give her the lily and she holds it with both hands.

I look back before closing the gate behind me. I see the shiny granite, smooth and cold. In my mind I read its inscription: Aram Dorian 1900-1978 Loving husband and father. And underneath in tiny letters, Enjoy the walk. Standing beside his words, I glimpse my father waiting for me on the other side of the bridge.

Driving by H Searle

2011-02-09T20:02:00.003+02:00

"Welcome to the session, Bob." He said warmly. This was followed by the stereotypical chorus of "Hi Bob..."
"Would you care to tell us why you're here?"

I looked down at my very clean hands. I looked up and said, very slowly, "I have aichurophobia, ankylophobia, amaxophobia, belonephobia and dysteychiphobia."

The room silenced completely. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes. I squirmed in my chair. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes again. I prepared to leave. Someone said, "Is that all?"

I felt a smile of embarassed relief overwhelm my facial muscles and spread across my face.

He looked up at me kindly and said, "Now group, as usual, Bob is going to share his problems with us in more detail. He will also try to pinpoint the cause of the problems." He looked at me expectantly.

"Well..." I said, clearing my throat, "it all started when I got into a thing with wheels, steering wheel, break..."

"A car." He said. I winced.

"Yes. That. You know I heard a funny thing the other day to do with phobias."

"Great but we are really trying to-"

"It went like this: 'I'm afraid of grounds!'
'You mean heights.'
'I know what I mean! It's the ground that kills you!'"

"That was really funny, but you were saying..."

There is just no side-tracking some people.

"I got into a...car... And I drove. And as I drove, I became aware of a number of things. People don't realise it but driving is dangerous and complicated. We often get told, 'Oh, you know an aeroplane is safer than a car?' and our subconscious reply is, 'Yes I do, but my death trap has a stereo and private air conditioning'. Sure some people struggle with moving the flappy things by your legs, but there's more to it. What we are essentially doing when we drive is taking a metal cage of doom on wheels and driving it along a piece of asphalt. All, and I mean all, that sits between us and the next metal cage of doom on wheels is a little line. Not a wall, or a glass barrier but a little painted white line and the hope that the guy coming towards us at 80 kilometeres per house in a machine weighing over 400 kilograms will stay on his side. It's like fighting kids... 'This is your side, this is my side. So long as you stay on your side, we won't have any problems.' And I guess that's where most of my phobias come from. It asll started, I think, with dystychiphobia, the fear of accidents."

"I have that," said a brown-jacketed man to my left.

"Isn't it annoying?" I asked him.

"Yes, I guess," he replied, "but it's kept me alive up until this point. I mean, is it really irrational to be afraid of accidents?"

The doctor finally spoke up. "To the point where it inhibits your quality of life, yes. It is, however, good to be wary of accidents on the road and to do all one can to avoid them."

"Anyway," I said without a trace of annoyance, "that obviously lead to aicurophobia, the fear of being touched by pointed objects. If I'm in a... thing on wheels... and am in an accident, I will be touched by sharp objects, like glass or broken metal and probably die."

"I think that's a little extreme," a woman on my right said. "Many people drive daily without accidents. And impaling is not all that common in accidents due to the way the cars are designed. Crushing should be your main concern, as when a car collides with-"

"Okay I think that's quite enough Percilla."

"Yes doctor."

I continued, "Then if you're in an accident, you can't move. So that's where I got my ankylophobia from. What if I'm trapped and I can't move a joint? It'll be like not having an arm! It'll be so terrible, it'll-"

"Calm down, Bob, you're in a safe place." The doctor soothed.

"Alright. I'm fine." I said panting. "And obviously with that come belonephobia. I can't stand pins and needles, it-"

"Let's not go there today, shall we?"

"Okay. And I guess all of this adds up to my amaxophobia." I finished levelly.

"So you're afraid of automobiles because of all the other things you're afraid of. Not uncommon. Group, where do we usually start?" the doctor asked.

As one voice they answered, "What do you do as a profession?"

"Well?" he asked me, one word and a raise of eyebrow doing the job of a whole sentence.

"I'm a learner driver."

Dreamers of Tomorrow by A Hess

2011-02-09T19:59:00.002+02:00

My head is spinning
My breath comes fast
Images are blurred
Future, present and past

A flash of light
The movement slows
What wonders what
This scene will hold

I see an ocean
Of dark red blood
A field of corpses
Left in the mud.

All these horrors
This pain and sorrow
Is this what's left
For the dreamers of tomorrow?

Crime and Punishment by H Searle

2011-02-09T19:55:00.003+02:00

A person with an unpleasantly heavy black bag walked through the open door. The things the bag contained and who they were meant for, they would find out later.

In the passageway before the open door stood a confused man. "It doesn't have to be this way!" he said, a tear, like a silent raindrop, rolling down his cheek.
"It does." The man replied plainly, his drawn face set with resolution to do the deed. "A price needs to be paid. A crime cannot go unpunished."
"By why you?" the man pleaded, "You have never done anything wrong! Only good has come from your life!"
"I know the prisoner," the man replied, looking into his eyes. "I know what he has the potential to become if the price were paid."
He was silent.
"It is time," the man said, "for mercy."

The man in black fell on his knees and blocked it all out, covering his eyes.

He heard a gunshot.

Price paid, the prisoner stepped through the massive archway, in front of the man on his knees. Putting his knees into the damp dust in front of him, the prinsoner whispered, "Why me?"

I Wonder Why PART ONE by S Tinelli

2011-02-09T19:38:00.003+02:00

I wonder why? I thought as I was running, but then my thoughts were pushed to the side as another bomb hit and I was thrown down by the force of the explosion. I lifted my body up as if I was a masterless puppet and pushed on. I am running from the German officers, my name is Katiana, it is October 5th 1939 and the war has just begun....

As I ran down Von Aldrecht Street, I thought of the day our house was bombed, I thought of Caris, Alexander and Silvia my two brothers and younger sister. My mind also happened to bring up my parents and grandmother. when the house was bombed I was downstairs, outside, and they were all insidetrying to escape, knowing that they might die any second. And at that moment it hit. The house crumbled and I lay under what was once my home, unconscious and unaware that my whole family had just been killed and were buried under our memories. And I am left alone.

I cleared my mind and tried to think of a place to hide that the Germans weren't already guarding. I saw two of the officers and I knew that they saw me, although I wished to heavens above that they hadn't. I tried to hide around the next bend but as I looked up to clear my surroundings they were there. I felt alone, out of place, I felt Jewish.

As I was carried away I tried desperately to fight my way loose but they were too strong for my weak body, I felt them put something or other on my ankle but before I could see it I was unconscious.

We were summoned outside by the loud, heavy voices of the German generals. We stood in a crows but it was not long until we were forced into a line. I drifted off, looking at a beautiful line of trees just at the end of the camp. And then I broke the silence in my head and carried on listening. they said to lift up our left sleeves. I was not looking forward to this, I already knew what they were going to do to us, but I wished I didn't know. As I looked at the other girls I noticed one, surprisingly gentle looking German officer, who was watching me. It was a relief to me, to see gentle but scared eyes and I could immediately see that he didn't have a choice in being there either.

The general took the branding iron out of the heated chamber and muttered something under his breath, in German, just so that the other officers could hear and we all watched as they laughed dangerously at what the general had said, only he didn't laugh. His name badge said his name was Heinz. I don't know why but every time I lay my eyes on him I felt a rush of adrenalin and reassurance.

I watched as the general walked down the row of girls, branding them. I knew that he knew that he was hurting them but in his eyes you could se that he didn't care who got hurt, just that they did. I couldn't image their pain and what made it worse was that my turn was still coming. As he pushed the iron into my skin I could feel the reaction of heat melting skin under the red hot sizzling surface. He lifted it off my skin but the pain lasted long after he had removed it.

You're A Shooting Star by S Swart

2011-01-30T15:25:00.003+02:00

You're just like a shooting star
And I can make a wish on you.
Even though you're really far,
I can see my wish coming true.
You started from the bottom up,
I was right behind you and watched.
Then I started falling down and hit the ground
While you drank victory out of a golden cup.
Now I watch you shine and I close my eyes,
Whisper my big wish; send it up to the skies.
You're so beautiful when you light up the night
When I watch you shine is when my heart shines bright.
Shooting stars go forever up and never stop
When I'm sith you in the night sky I'll never again drop.

The Real Fairytalesl: Snow White by A Hess

2011-01-30T14:55:00.002+02:00

Chapter 1

"For the last time -I WILL NOT CLEANT HE HOUSE!" I yell at the dwarves.
"But the book-" Happy holds up a book called Snow White.
"-is just a book which is freakishly similar to my life!" I grab it from Happy and throw it across the room. "Now," I say, "I am a princess and I refuse to do housework. That is your job." I point at the dwarves.
"But in the story it says that once you are chased by your step-motheryou'll come here and clea-" Dopey begins.
"I WILL NOT CLEAN! And I don't have a step-mother; the person trying to kill me is my REAL mother. She thinks I'm stealing her beauty. So she wants to kill me so she can get her beauty back! Ha! That crazy old hag!" I laugh.
"You're..." Bashful says, "...nothing like the story Miss Snow Whi-"
"MY NAME ISN'T SHOW WHITE! I mean, what kind of idiot would name their child that?! My name is Amari!" I finish.
"Maybe we should have stayed in the mine." Grumpy mumbles.
"Mines?" I ask. Suddenly interested.
"Yes," Sleepy yawns, "the gem mines."
Now this is interesting! I think to myself.
"Why don't you get some gems to show me?" I say, putting on my nicest voice. The dwarves look at each other, then shake their heads.
"Okay," I say, "let's make a deal." I smile and grab an apple from the dusty counter. "If you boys can find a diamond as big as this apple, I will clean the house for you."

They huddle together trying to decide if it's a good deal. A moment later they turn around nod.

"Come on!" Happy instructs, "Let's go!" The dwarves grab their tools and head out of the door. I stand by the door until I see them go over the hill. Just as they go over I slam the door shut and laugh.
"HA! They'll never be able to find a jewel as big as this! The apple is bigger than both my fists put together! And if they do - I'm rich!" I stop my celebrations when I hear a knock at the door. I go and open it and standing in front of me is an old beggar woman with a basket of apples.

"Don't want any." I say as I slam the door in her face. She knocks again. Getting angry I go up to the fireplace and grab a fire prod then walk back to the door. "WHAT?!" I yell as I swing open the door.
"Do you want to buy an apple?" The old hag asks.
"We're in the middle of a forest, where there are HUNDREDS of apple trees. Think lady, use your brain if you have one!" I scream, rolling my eyes.
"Ah, but one of quality like these?" she asks.
"Wait," I say, really looking at the situation. "Why is there an arbitrary old lady trying to sell me apples in the middle of an apple forest...?"
"Um... well, er..." she mumbles.
"Now," I point the fire prod at her, "leave!"
"How dare you!" The old lady proclaims. "Do you know wh-"
"Just give me an apple!" I say, not caring what she wants to tell me. I take a good look athte blood red apple that she gives me and I open my mouth as if to eat it. I watch her open her own mouth in anticipation of my bite and in that instant I shove it in between her wrinkly lips and slam the door behind me. I turn and go upstairs to take a nap.

* * * * * *

The dwarves are hard at work looking for that one big jewel so Amari will clean their house.
"No," Happy says, picking up antoher gem, "not quite." He throws it behind him.
"Oi!" Grumpy yells. All the dwarves look at him. "What will hapen if she doesn't clean?"
"Theeeee -theeeee -theeeeen -then we force her to!" Bashful replies.
"But she's not the type of person who will listen." Happy says.
"Then we drug her." Grumpy exclaims. "And once she's out of it we dump her on the midnight wagon that comes every week. Thank goodness it comes tonight!" And just like that, the dwarves had a back-up plan.

* * * * * *

"Ah," I say as the dwarves open the door. "you DID come back!"
"We sure did!" Happy says.
"And look!" Dopey says holding up a diamond the size of an apple.
"Well," I say, grabbing it and my apple. "Let's see if it's big enough."
I hold up the jewel directly in front of the apple. Only a small outline of the apple is left.
"Sorry, it's just not big enough." I smile.
"But it is!" the dwarves yell.
"No, I still see some of my apple, ergo, it isn't big enough."
The dwarves all stare at me in disbelief.
"Now," I say, sitting back in a chair. "Go make dinner, I'm hungry."
With that they all slog off to the kitchen.

"Alright," Grumpy says, "get me the sleeping powder."
"Grumpy," Happy says, "this might not be the best-"
"-Shut up." Grumpy snaps. "Unless you want her to stay and boss us around."
And so the dwarves got to work. They chopped veggies, boiled water, got spices and made a stew. The dwarves got all the bowls lined up to receive the stew.

As Grumpy dishes out the stew he keeps thinking over his plan and smiling. When Dopey comes up with his bowl Grumpy says, "Dopey, can I trust you wih Amari's bowl?"
Dopey nods with such enthusiasm that his had slips over his eyes.
"Oh dear." Grumpy mumbles while rubbing his eye with the back of a hand. "Okay, all you need to do is put in the powder. I'm going to sit at the table. Be quick."
Dopey looks for the powder and sees it on the top shelf. He goes to fetch a stepping ladder and climbing up it he reaches for the powder but only with his fingertips just touching the bottle.
He reaches further and stretches far but knocks it over, the lid flies off and powder spills into the bowl on the counter below. Dopey rushes down the little ladder and grabs a spoon to stir the powder into the stew. All the while hoping that he wasn't making too much of a mess.

* * * * * *

"HURRY UP! I'm HUNGRY!" I yell at Dopey as he walks at a painfully slow pace, trying not to spill my dinner. He puts it down in front of me and runs to his seat. I pick up my spoon and start to eat.
"Hey, this isn't half bad." I say. Just as I am about to take another spoonful I feel a very large yawn stuck in my throat, moments before I black out.

* * * * * *

And before her second bite she passes out landing face first in the stew sending droplets flying.
"DAMN IT!" Grumpy says. "How much did you put in there?" He turns to Dopey.
At that moment there is a knocking at the door.
"Coming!" Happy calls out as he rushes to reach the door. In the doorway is a very handsome man.
"Hello little men, I am a weary prince traveling back to my home, my I please use your bathro-" he looks up towards the table and sees Amari, face down in her food.
"Could it be?" He walks forward, lifting up her stew-drenched face from the bowl. "Amari! My true love!" He sweeps her up into his arms. "Come my love!" He says to an unconscious girl with bits of vegetables on her face. "We shall go to my kingdom to be wed!" And with that he walked out of the cottage.

After a moment of stunned silence the dwarves all look at Happy.
"Well, that was random. bon appetit!' Happy says and the dwarves continue living in the little cottage, glad to be rid of Princess Amari.

The Nightmare by A Hess

2011-01-30T14:54:00.003+02:00

A thousand doors
In a pitch black forest
Not a sound
As I lay my soul to rest

Between the leaves
No stars do shine
Only a moon
In the dark sky decline

A figure in the night
Comes to my hollow bones
A hooded man
Come to take me home

A presence like ice
With hands of claws
A clatter I hear
Of boney jaws

He tries to touch
With a skeleton hand
I shuffle back
And try to stand

This thing
In a sihouette of black
It's him
My nightmare - Jack.

Silent Runner by J Chambers

2011-01-30T14:45:00.002+02:00

There's a boy I noticed at the beginning of the day running 8km barefoot on sharp stones and later, eating alone at break.

In the beginning, I thought he was, well, peculiar. Coming from the world I've grown up in I'm also sad to admit that the thoughts that ran through my mind when it came to this boy were ones that would have, in the past, have gotten me a severe telling off and threats of 'getting my mouth washed out with soap and water'. As he was different to me, I was, hesitant, about conversing with him or being seen anywhere near him.

At the end of a long school day complete with loads of stressful assignments and a fun break with the grils discussing our weekend plans and make-up ideas for Saturday night's dance (I'm going with Oliver!) I put my feet up and got straight onto mxit.

Within a few short texts I managed to uncover many stories about this boy and his bare feet; people didn't seem to be very positive about him. Nor were they bothered that we had never seen him before as he was not in or around my circle of friends and so I pretended not to be bothered either, for fear of people finding out that I was in fact bothered. Angry at myself for having been so shallow as to not venture out of my circle at all this year.

I was also intrigued by the way I had seen him running that 8km barefoot, being completely himself no matter what all these people had to say about him, the way he has never tried to change himself to fit in. I'm reminded of the fact that the only I time I ever feel completely happy with myself is when I look good on the outside, when someone tells me I look good, because then you are good... right?

Throughout the week I observed from my world and the realisation struck that although we are roughly the same age, problems that seem to me like the biggest issue in the world, don't even cross his mind. This made me wonder exactly how big of a deal my issues really are.

The more I sit and thinka bout all this now, the more I begin to understand that although I will never be the type of independent person who's completely unfazed and not worried by the social demands around me, I may have learned a valuable life lesson: I will never find contentment and pure happiness in running 8km barefoot; I must find what makes me happy and run with it, no matter what everyone else is doing. You should too.

Sleep by A Hess

2011-01-30T14:43:00.002+02:00

I lay alseep unmoving
In a shallow pool of blood
My body is useless
After a violent flood

My lungs are lined with water
My mouth is hard and dry
I know I have been left here
Left alone to die

My eyes are now half moons
Closing against my will
My body feels so cold
I am left on the floor -still.

I am tired now
My soul is tattered and weak
It is now my time
To have eternal sleep.

Anger by A Hess

2011-01-30T14:41:00.001+02:00

White hot anger
pouring through my veins
wanting to hit something
causing agony and pain

no calm breath
could sooth my raging soul
my heart has gone
now turning cold

no rational though
my mind no longer functions
only primal thoughts
thoughts of destruction

my eyes shoot daggers
my gut is wrenching
I only see my target
Alone in my mind, fenced in.

One Day by S Storey

2011-01-30T14:40:00.002+02:00

I stand on
my two feet.
Shoulders back.
Head held high,
the sun melting
my determination
into a defiant grin.

Today is my day
and I will walk
into the sun
so that the
shadows fall
behind me,
unable to
swallow my
success.

I will climb
every mountain,
cross every river.
No valley
will prove
too difficult
for me.
No ocean
will stop
my mission
for accomplishment.

It's the cost that counts by J Chambers

2011-01-30T14:33:00.002+02:00

The idea of a gift at Christmas has become a how of much you love or care for somoene through the cost of an item.
Instead of the traditional idea of the giving of a small token to thank someone for being in or contributing to one's life. It is no longer the thought that counts, it's the price tag that comes with it.

A father once saved up a bit of his hard earned money each month to pay for a dress for his daughter at Christmas. The dress cost a thousand rand but he had found a shop in town that sold the exact same dress for half the price which, even though it was a lot cheaper, was still out of this man's budget for Christmas presents. When it came to Christmas time he paid for the dress, really happy that he had in fact managed to save up enough to buy something that meant a lot to his daughter. The idea of making his daughter happy, made him happy.

When his daughter opened the present on Christmas day, she was delighted and immediately ran to put the dress on.

Ten minutes later she arrived back with the dress in her hand and tears streaming down her face.

"Why don't you love me?" she cried.

"Honey, I don't understand, you wanted this dress..." he replied feeling awfully sad to see her upset.

"No. I wanted the real one! This one's cheap. I obviously don't mean very much to you!" She stormed out of the room.

I hope this story got the message out to you. A smaller price tag on a gift doesn't mean that someone loves you less, just as a higher price doesn't mean that someone loves you more.
One must realise that a price doesn't show the extent of a person's love for you, it's the fact that they wanted a gift for you whether it was made, bought or passed down, it's the fact that they thought of you that counts.

I See The Sky by S Swart

2011-01-30T14:31:00.001+02:00

I see the sky, I see what tomorrow holds.
I see it fade and go thick like my blood.
I see the smoke, the way the heat moulds,
I see inside and wash away the painful mud.
I see that my heart is broken,
I see that I'll still have palpable feelings,
I see that it's better to be outspoken
But I know it' just the way of human beings.
I see the way that I'm going
I know that I must not break down,
Sometimes you go best without knowing
When you are going to get back your crown.
I know the way I'm going to be,
I know for sure, it's what I see.

Dark Side of the Moon - by S Swart

2011-01-30T14:29:00.002+02:00

I see thee still
In dreams from a deep and heavenly bodied sky.
The moon, a lawful and universal eye,
Yielding the gulfing sea's storm
Bringing soothing silence to those who mourn.
As phases go past, it's the fullness that best glows,
Dissolvin my shadows when the night reaps what it sows.
The calmnes in the instant, my soul set to rest,
With its brightness in my life, i wish it to be blessed.
When luminous light dies and darkness pours in
Smokey shadows eclipse and grey clouds pin,
Night fades to day that comes too soon.
I ask myself why I stare at the dark side of the moon.

Dancing Night by A Hess

2011-01-30T14:26:00.002+02:00

In the water
Alone at night
I dance to music
Below soft moonlight

Skimming the surface
Stars reflect against time
Tipping the balance
On a finely painted line

A foggy figure
From the water does rise
Appearing from nothing
Right before my eyes

A warm wind blows
As it smiles at me
Its partner appears
Now just as three

They embrace together
Now moving to the music
All of us dancing
To a night barely lit.

"Gingers do have souls!" by S Tinelli

2010-10-28T09:55:00.003+02:00

...shouts the odd ginger behind your computer screen in the YouTube window.

Discrimination against the average person who just happens to have carrot orange hair is something commonly known as Gingerism to the world today. Many very successful people in today's society have a ginger-coloured head of hair yet we discriminate against them because of this. They are not in any way different to us. Why do we do this, you may ask?

Well, to put it simply, as humans we are mean and we enjoy seeing others embarrassed. We do this because life is a cycle: we get picked on for our size, shape, our beauty or ugliness and so we return the favour to others. The only difference between gingers and the rest of us is that their hair colour is different.

We complain about differences every day through racism, sexism and any other discrimination, yet what would we do if there was no difference in this world?

"Variety is the spice of life" is what many say, yet we cannot seem to grasp the differences between people and then just accept them.

We as humans are so fussy that we tend to forget about the small differences between us that go unappreciated. For it is these differences between us that allow us to stay entertained in the rush of life. I mean, really, "discriminating against hair colour," is that what we have deteriorated to?

"Comfortable Fit" by E Pienaar

2010-10-21T21:24:00.002+02:00

"Smoke?"
The man looked up, blearily with bloodshot eyes, as if he had just woken up after a night of heavy drinking. His dark-ringed eyes darted from side to side as if suspecting a trap then, hesitatantly, he pulled his hand out from within his long overcoat and reached out for the proffered cigarette.

"Since you're offering..." responded the man in the overcoat snatching the cigarette and lightingup with a silver zippo that seemed to have slipped out from one of his sleeves. He wore fingerless gloves on hands that were as grubby as the rest of him. His haair fell long and greasy over his face which was illuminated for a brief moment as he lit up. What she saw briefly in the spark seemed to imprint itself on her memory and she could still make out the shadows of where his sunken eyes sat in the orange glow of the ash.

She sat herself down next to him on the steps and lit a cigarette for herself. Above them the drone of conversation floated down from the bright lights of the party.
"Don't quite fit in do you/" she asked the man wrinkling her nose in distaste. Sitting as his level had not relieved her of the strong odour that was wafting over from where he sat.

The man made an odd, keening noise that seemed to pass as somewhat of a snigger. He took a long drag on his cigarette, drawing it until the filter. Removing the stub from his mouth he let the pent up smoke billow out before answering, "I fit in just fine thank you; it is a large enough room afer all. How about you? Being such a big girl that room seems barefly spacious enough. You had to bend down to get through the door didn't you?" he asked, flashing a sudden grin of, amazingly enough, perfectly white teeth. The smoke still hung in the air circling the two on the steps. The man suddenly stuck out his hand, palm up and mimed puffing on cigarette with the other.

The woman was slightly flustered. Most people tended to avoid the topic of her size. Indeed, most people tended to avoid her flat out, intimidated by all seven feet of her. She brushed her long black hair out of her face as she rummaged in a purse, that seemed minute in comparison to her, in search of her pack of cigarettes. It wasn't that she was overweight or out of proportion. She was simply on a larger scale to most others.

Finding her pack, she offered the open box to her companion while smoothing down her dress, which was tailor-made to fit -but the latest in fashion. The man took four.
"I didn't mean... erm... physically out of place. I was referring to your clothes," she attempted to explain, gesturing with her large manicured hands, "-by the way, were you even on the guest list? What is your name?"

The man had unrolled the cigarettes and was busy pouring the contents into a pipe he had fished out of his coat. "I'm Bond-"

"James?"she interrupted, raising a perfectly oversized eyebrow.

"Virgil, actually," he replied, flashing another perfectly white grin. "My clothes are the clothes of my profession and I have been told that a man dressed professionally is a man worth respect." The pipe was now lit and more smoke was curling out in thick clouds that began to obscure the surroundings. "Let me tell you something," he said, blowing smoke in her face. "A tree cannot pass for a flower. One can give it petals, scent it wonderfully and have planted it in a flower bed, but the people who pass will only remark on how odd that tree looks."

The woman was shaken. She opened and closed her mouth a few times trying to find the words to respond, "And what profession is that, Mr Bond?"

Nothing could be seen from outside the smoke now. "I'm in travel," he said, "but lately I've grown a bit weary of it all. Been thinking of settling down somewhere. Maybe in a room that fits me." he looked pensively at her then, before continuing, "If you don't mind me saying, you do not fit that room and it fits you even less. Have you considered a career in travel? There's a wonderful freedom to it and with the sky as a roof I can hardly think of a better fit for you."

She could feel his eyes boring into her, holding her fixated. "Okay... what do I need to do?"

The man, Virgil Bond, spat in his hand and offered it to her. After only a moment's hesitation she spat, grasped it and shook firmly.

She reached then for a handkerchief to clean the spit from her hand but none of the pockets of her overcoat contained anything of the sort. A well manicured hand came forward with a handkerchief. Embroidered in gold at the one corner were the initials, VB.

Leaving her, a well groomed man in a tailored suit made his way back to the party at the house. Alone, she emptied out her pipe, brushed her long greasy black hair out of her haunted eyes and set off with nothing but the night sky above her.

"Red Cardinals -for Rae Ellen" by S Nakada

2010-10-21T21:08:00.004+02:00

He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's at the age of fifty-two. It started with forgetting where he put the nails in his backyard shed, or forgetting what he'd done five minutes ago. he'd comment about the baseball scores and how the st Louis Cardinals would surely get to the finals that season, forgetting that they had lost to the Boston Red Sox the night before. Then he realised that he started blending time - discolouring and stripping it of its depth, he would look at the clock and realise he had wasted two hours staring at a meaningless TV screen.

He took great care to hide these glitches from his wife. He told her he'd talked with a friend on his way to the grocer's and that the conversation had kept him from buying the bread and butter. He made lists of things to do each day, wrote out directions for himself when he drove around town.

And one day a visit to the doctor's confirmed his dreaded suspicions. They put him drugs, useless medication that he knew would not slow this aggressive snowball from rolling down faster, rolling his memories and brain into a still, bare echo. He'd heard of Alzheimer's. He knew it was a lost battle, a blind-folded rush to the unkown. He dreaded its avid clutches stealing away his life, and he finally understood how precious and beautiful memories were, how sweet and kind life had been to him. He wanted to cherish his remaining years. He wanted to live the rest of his life the way he'd always wanted to.

All too soon, though, he found how meaningless time was and how little difference there was between ten minutes and ten days and ten years. He rediscovered the feeling of dependency and joy at small miracles like laughter. He did not realise he moved to a nursing home. He did not remember the fear in his wife's eyes after he saw red. But for brief moments he would remember the fading imprints of the feel of his wife's hands on his. Sometimes he would bask in his chair and listen to the red cardinals from his room when he still could marvel at the beauty of nature. And when he couldn't hold his cutlery anymore and had to wear diapers his eyes still held a peace. When he couldn't speak anymore he still heard. And in his last moments, when he was just a dead living, he still felt his wife's presence, still felt his red heart pumping feebly each second. And then his heart ceased.

And a lifetime of memories flew forth.

"The Problem" by P Viljoen

2010-10-18T08:47:00.003+02:00

The problem with thinking is that once you start it's quite hard to stop...

Creation. A term used when "something" begins to exist. This usually is an improvement for that particular "Thing" but it leaves the question, "What came before?"

A line was traced through the cosmos, this was big news. In a place where space and time were laughable ideas all of a sudden form was created.

The line grew, an irrevocable solidity which drove back the white expanse forcing one idea onto a space precariously occupied by the endless possibilities of emptiness.

Lines stretched, joined, coupled and completed. The idea grew more complex; it was no longer a single point of focus but a train of thought which was pushing back the white expanse with the irreversable ease of consciousness.

A pair of eyes. No more than black holes, grew in the centre of the focus, devouring the world for the first time and instantly forgetting the absense that came before.

A mouth, a line scratched across what was now the face of the world, just a line, an after-thought which at once gave a voice to the world but also imparted emotion to the solitary figure, just one detail was left... a name.

ERIC. V

Where do ideas go? If an idea were forgotten does it no longer exist... or does it simply go back to where it came from? All ideas are different, some strange, some profound, others simple, fleeting or absurd but this idea... ERIC. V... now he had personality.

The thing about existance is that you can't really remember what it was like before it started, thought Eric. V.

Yes, Eric thought, this had come as quite the suprise; he knew that his first thought possibly wasn't even that good.

He had stood there on the square, looking ever forward, never moving. His coal dark eyes passively boring a hole in an unending, unbroken white world, until a spark flared a single moment of awareness which flooded the dam of consciousness and spilled over its wall to anxiously become the second thought of this white, empty world.

"Well, this is boring." Followed by the first blink, yawn and scratch in an inappropriate place.

The problem with creation, thought Eric. V, while pacing the flloor of his walless cell, is that it seems to often get bored.

After the initial shock of finding himself existing in a world as interesting as a 5 000 piece puzzle of a clear sky, Eric. V promptly lost his balance and experienced gravity, fear and pain in the same instant.

Emotions spun dangerously in his mind, like a novelty chainsaw juggling act, each one rushing towards him demanding Eric. V's attention.

The chaos of instantaneous existing eventually passed and with no small amount of effort Eric. V stood and took a few tentative steps to the edge of the pure white platform on which he stood.

Time, as we all know, is truly relevant on space; so in a world filled by only one figure, who can say for sure how long he peered ignorantly over that edge, but what we do know is that Eric. V was not afraid. Curious, slightly confused, a little nauseous and slightly hungry but not afraid. How could he be, he was alone and did not know anything about...well... anything.

So he nonchalantly swung first one, then the other leg over the edge and then fell as gracefully as any slinky could have hoped for -head over heels into the endless possibilities of nothing.

For Eric. V knew deep down that there are no endings, only different beginnings.

In memory of Eric Viljoen, my grandfather that i didn't meet.

"One man's freedom fighter, another man's terrorist" by L Wellner

2010-10-17T15:45:00.002+02:00

Murder, madness, horror, cruelty and disrespect. Many words a Sea Shepherd member would use to describe the horror happening out at sea, as the result of another nation's tradition.

Out in the Southern Ocean there is an ongoing war betwen the one-ship strong army of the Sea Shepherds and the entire Japanese whaling fleet. The eco-warriors, the Sea Shepherds, will stop at nothing to try and rob the Japanese of a profitable whaling season. In spite of being few in number, the SS put up a good fight by disabling whaling vessels at harbour, intervening in seal hunts, ramming other vessels, tossing glass bottles (of butyric acid) on the decks of the vessels at sea, using a system called "prop fouling" (tossing rope into the propellers of the whaling ships) and disorientating whalers with laser devices.

Of course, this is only possible when they are not being shot at by high pressure water-hoses, powerful enough to wound a brave Sea Shepherd badly enough to be taken back to the main vessel, the MY Steve Irwin. The whalers have another powerful weapon, a Long Range Acoustical Device (LRAD) causing the victims disorientation and dizziness to such an extent that one would fall over (doing so on a speed boat in the Arctic ocean could be fatal).

The leader of this powerful organization? Captain Paul Watson, an early member of Greenpeace who was ousted for his direct action activism, which clashed with their pacifist ethos. He started the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, whose aims were to stop commercial fishing, shark poaching and finning, seal hunting and whaling.

The crew of this organization includes eco-warriors from England, Australia, South Africa, Holland and many more. They dedicate their lives to help protect our marine life. Animal Planet has been filming the weekly series Whale Wars, based on the group's encounters with the Japanese. Watching it, you are right in the action with the Sea Shepherds. If just watching the programme isn't enough for you, you can view their website at www.seashepherd.org.

You can donate money or become a member. Who knows? -Maybe they need someone like you on board the Steve Irwin. Maybe you could save some whale's life. Maybe you could chance this world?

"Song of the dead" by A Hess

2010-10-17T15:41:00.002+02:00

On a cold Thursday morn
Walking on a forgotten road
I smile and meet the dawn,
A calm, residing-abode

No footsteps disturb the pavement
Not even my own two soles
A never-ending silence along the cement
When something haunting calls

I pass a cemetary, the B'nB of the dead
To have a silent song come from its woods
A quiet melody - intruding in my ead
I see two footprints where someone once stood

A never-ending humming rings in my ears
Someone is out there
Indulging in my fears
Doing things I wouldn't dare

To whispier in someone's mind
To enfold them in your song
It's a song that will bind
Blind me even if it's gone

It goes against all beliefs
To have someone poking in your head
But it is the melody of the deceased
A loving song of the dead.

"The bold and the blustery" by N Smith

2010-10-17T15:36:00.002+02:00

With silent composure and the temperament of a saintly child,
It hustled noiselessly, as if stillborn,
Through the branches,
Leaves,
Petals,
And sepals,
Gently caressing Mother Nature's limbs.

Angered by the sun's defiant, yet silent reign,
Where all were dependent,
The breeze raised itself up into a larger state,
Like an insecure dog raises the hairs on his neck.

Swooping and singing a glorious war cry,
He stops only to hesitantly check for a
sign of interest in the sun's eyes,
Yet the sun looks on silently in amusement,
Unperplexed.

It is not that he feels a superior being in
comparison to the inconstant wind.
He, unlike others,
Is here
Past,
Present,
And future,
Whereas the wind has a wavering lifespan from a few minutes,
To a few days,
And whose timeline of age is constantly reset,
From a young and childlike breeze,
Where the winds of change signal instability,
To a brewing storm easily conquered by the appearance of our valinat hero,
The sun.

There will always be those that are content in themselves,
And know that they are a success,
And those like the wind that need constant power-ups
To feed their dependent wouls with others' support.

"Afrikaans versus Modern Society" by N Smith

2010-10-17T13:48:00.002+02:00

Undoubtedly, one of the thoughts that has at some time crossed our minds as students is about the relevance of learning Afrikaans as a second language.

At school, every day, as a citizen of South Africa, this idea of Afrikaans being a relevant part of educating the younger generations is forced upon our society.

Second to English, Afrikaans always takes highest priority over other subjects. I ask you, is language not an art? Then for what reason does Afrikaans take preference over the cultural arts such as dramatic and visual art? For a student, failing cultural arts is seen as a non-event. The subjects are seen as irrelevant in schooling and supposedly these subjects 'get in the way of more important subjects' when in fact they provide creative stimulus, which inspires us and invigorates us.

When the Afrikaans grades start to drop extra lessons are quickly fitted into every free opening in the child's timetable -third language periods, prep time and even during sport practices, if all else fails, which robs the child of what little freedom they have. I can understand these measures being taken for a first language such as English. After all, it is the universal language. Without English, all other areas, such as history, where good vocabulary is needed for essay writing to sustain good grades, fails. It is even needed in mathematics in order to understand the language of numerals and decimals. How else could a problem sum be completed short of mathematics maturing and solving its own problems?

Overseas, Afrikaans is barefly recognised as a language of importance whatsoever, so why should it be learned here? The Chinese's growing economy will soon be dominating Europe, so should we not be learning Mandarin instead? Already, approximately eighty percent of our goods have "made in China" inscribed on them somewhere in small letters. All students with knowledge of Mandarin would have a higher chance of finding a job overseas in the future, and a fighting chance of being accepted as a successful individual in the work place. Even those who do not immigrate will lose interest in a minority language such as Afrikaans when pursuing a tertiary education in their home langauge, and their knowledge of the language will gradually fade to black, so why waste precious time teaching it to them now?

Out of the eleven official languages in our country, only one of them is instinctively assigned as a compulsory second language in the Western Cape and is seen as more important than all the others, and yet nobody wonders for what reason this is so.

I have nothing against those with an Afrikaans background but merely ask you why the language must be forced on those are not interested in it? To ensure that it does not die out? Is it part of a minority's culture that they feel others would gain value sharing in the experience of? If the public would rather learn Xhosa or Zulu or any of the other official langauges as a secondary langauge should they not be allowed to decide for themselves which they feel is a more advantageous avenue of language study?

I have no problem with Afrikaans speaking schools and universities who give classes solely in this language, specifically for the Afrikaans members of these institutions, but those who do not take naturally to Afrikaans, should be allowed to choose to be educated in one of the official languages that they feel is more representative of their own individual background. Langauge is a part of culture, and if we should be allowed to choose our own religions should the same not be allowed for langauge choice? Choosing a language that does not define us individually is trying to be someone we are not, and if we are allowed to choose our own languages it will impact positively on our ability to express ourselves freely.

Afrikaans is a completely different langauge to English and has its humorous sayings that tickle the nation's pride, but for the youth of South Africa who find Afrikaans does not come easily to them, it is difficult to access these contextual expressions when speakers are accustomed to other langauges that are humorous in completely different ways.

Some public figures really make a language come alive, but I am sorry to say that we are lacking in those figures in society, and the remaining, who do understand its authenticity are reducing the language's reputation in society. What our country needs is someone who excels in Afrikaans who will put this langauge "out there" and rekindle the desire to speak it. The rest of us, if asked to write a creative essay in Afrikaans, I assure you, will struggle to find inspirational ways to express ourselves as the difference between English and Afrikaans is so vast.

Do not get rid of Afrikaans as a secondary language in schools, but offer it alongside the other official languages of South Africa, with the added choice of internationally budding languages such as Mandarin, so that those who want to learn globally accepted languages are given the choice to pave the path to their future.

"Confession" by S Linkov

2010-10-17T13:34:00.002+02:00

Everyone's broken something.
Me, a rat's skull.
I'd found it, you know, just walking.
Thought I might keep it. With hollow teeth and those
enameled hoops where its eyes should be
and behind, space with no brain to speak of
it never made a sound. Maybe we'd be
friends.

I'm most myself when I'm breaking things.
I buck toy horses till their legs snap right off,
flush pills downt he drain. When I was five I
stood on a tadpole to see what would happen.
I'm a job-satisfied torturer. I'm a bawling
crass god. When I broke my leg, I laughed.

I hid the skull in my pack. As I took it out
white powder spilled out of its nose like
blood. Its teeth were jagged, the hoops
not quite hoop-like, one jaw I couldn't find.
My foot was Levite-angry. Splinters flew to
the coasts of Isreal. Then I got my breath back.

It's stupid. I tell myself to grow up. I started
a pottery class once. Fingering air bubbles
I made the children cry. I sketched a nude,
gave her a rack to lie on. Tore a book in two
to show just how strong I was. But that rat...
You really don't give half a damn, do you?

"The voice of the trees" by A Wellman

2010-10-12T13:48:00.004+02:00

As dusk set in, the sky burned crimson. Electrifying the air to the point where it was almost tangible. Setting the eerie yet perfect and repetitious atmosphere for, "story time". The human ear, it is just the mere wind, but to Nature, it is the excited and incessant rambling of the young ones.

To clarify Story Time: It is the sharing of knowledge. Shared by the story teller. The story teller always being a tree. A tree who is the wisest and oldest of them all.

The pixies join from their hollows, the soil rests where it is, the animals and plants find harmony amongst each other, the sky relaxes, the sun takes a deep breath, swalloing the remaining day, the water stills and mother earth smiles at her offspring. All is calm and all is serene. To the human ear the wind has died to a simple breeze, but to Nature the lecturer has begun his speech.

"Emily. Emily. Emily, my most beloved friend. Oh she was beautiful. Golden twirls that caressed her delicate face, while her sparkling eyes enticed anyone closer.
Emily came to me when she was very little. She came to me with her father, he tied a tyre to my branches and it made me very happy. Little Emily would swing for hours, smiling and laughing. Her locks flowing back and forth. She came to me with her mother, they were so similar. Same happy, care-free smile. The one that could make anyone smile alone no matter their problems. They would have tea parties under my shade, sometimes her teddies would join. They were very friendly and would chatter away with everyone, silently. She even came to me with boys, but that was when she was older. They would sit in each others' arms against my trunk and talk for hours. Until the sky turned pink and the mist swept across the forest floor.
Then she came to me in tears for her father had died. She sat in my branches crying and crying.
Eventually her mother came through the surrounding trees and took her home in her sleep. I didn't see her after that for a very long time. Years even.

Until one day I woke to Emily cradled over something that was nestling in my roots. It let out a high pitched laugh, identical to Emily's. It was Emily's new daughter.
I was so proud of how little Emily had turned out. They sat in my roots just enjoying life. It gave me great pleasure. That was the last day I ever saw Emily, but not Rebecca.

Rebecca came to me, just as her mother had done, and she still does."

Just then something rustled in the bushes across from the story tree. A beautiful, curly blonde-haired girl emerged and strode towards the old tree. She raised a hand and rested in gently on the chipped bark.
"Hello there old friend," Rebecca smiled.

To Rebecca, the wind brushes past her, covering and embracing her.

"My Dreams" by A Hess

2010-10-10T15:23:00.002+02:00

What's the point in dreaming
If the dream will disappear?
What's the point in believing
If it is something that you fear?

Can you imagine a field with roses
Without any thorns?
To see forever sunsets, nights of stars
And kissing dawns.

To forever be enchanted
By the magic that surrounds us
Without ever thinking of the fear
That constantly threatens to drown us

No slow and creeping insanity
That brings us tears and pain
But I guess it's not a problem
If you were never sane

To have a dream of candy-floss
Sugar fairies and happiness
To never have to think of others,
And to never have to stress.

To dream of fields of sugar roses,
And a soft blue sky
To live in bliss forever
And never have to die.

I cannot escape reality
But yet under silver moon-beams
I can still allow one pleasure
To the safety of my dreams.

"A Tea Party" by A Hess

2010-10-10T15:20:00.003+02:00

A never-ending tea party
Is happening in Times Square
So what if we're all ghosts
And the living do not care!

Who needs to breathe?
Or who needs to touch?
It makes no difference
When we're all laughing so much!

To heck with the living
Enjoy your death!
If a living being could hear our jokes
They'd run out of breath!

Who needs drinks
or who needs food
when the guests can remove their heads
to lighten the mood?

When you're around forever
And insanity isn't rare
Might as well make the best of it
And have a never-ending tea-party in the middle of Times Square!

"Football at College" by A Hendricks

2010-10-10T14:50:00.003+02:00

Football; soccer; the beautiful game. It's the world's most popular sport, yet also one the College prides itself in lacking.

The College provides almost every other sport possibly desired by high school students, except the option many want. Granted, girls are given the opportunity, however in all honestly football is a male-dominated sport. The majority of schools across the country offer it, so I propose the question: why not at Somerset College?

I understand there is a petty fear of losing numbers in rugby and hockey as many boys will want to participate in soccer. Nevertheless, I highly doubt the prominent players of those sports will want to leave them to play football. Let the footballers play football and the others continue with their original options. This seems a vague solution but it holds water if we have try-outs. Have try-outs for a first team football team (as was done for rugby) and then let the players who qualify -and only those- be part of the team.
This option is feasible as it requires a maximum of around fifteen players who will represent the College's Football First Team, while the majority of other students continue in their respective sports, as per usual.

Tradition is something valuable, but not when it hinders progress. If we are to advance and diversify as a school the least we can do is let the boys participate in the beautiful game. Needless to say, only those who thoroughly deserve to play will end up playing through the process of proposed try-outs.

People may argue that other schools around us don't offer the sport and therefore, why should we? I'll tell you why, because we are Somerset College: because we pride ourselves on being leaders, not followers.

Feel free to express your comments, ideas on how to deal with this issue and to present further options, respectfully.

"Pop Culture and the Middle Mind" by M Goldsmid

2010-10-10T14:38:00.002+02:00

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. "Doctor, it's too late."

Culture is dead, and pop culture and consumerism have risen from the ashes like the twin, slack-jawed, drooling phoenixes of shallow desires and pretention. Desire? The word itself means nothing anymore, like similar things it is now nothing but hollow fakery, manipulated into a marketable product. So-called "modern culture" is mostly mindless content, and not culture in any real sense of the word. We are fed the monotonous drivel of our own disenchantment and ennui, thus, we no longer think. So, how is it that we were bled of meaning, of emotional substance, and reduced to the gratuitous emptiness of a deflated, wretched middle-mind?

We are beset by images and ideals created out of corporate ambition and representing greed, sexual or otherwise. We are deviously manoeuvred into a sense of incompleteness and lack, when really what we lack is any sense of real meaning or value. This is achieved via the flashing screens of cell phones, televisions and computers that blast mindless, manipulative drivel at us with an incessant fervour. And so, we are unwittingly drawn into it, becoming fools of our own ambition, willing participants in our own slavery. We pathetically attempt to adopt many of the characteristics and expectations that are projected onto us, and we lose our sense of self. All the while, the vapid nattering of cell phone conversation and the mindless chirps of Twitter blur the distinction betweent he real and the virtual, and human communication is degraded into a jumble of weakn contractions and asanine repetition. FYI, like OMG.

We don't know where we are or where we're going, what we should feel or think. This is precisely because all these things have been imposed on us. Far from the blunt authoritariansim of bygone eras, the fascism of the modern age is far subtler, and in a different, insidious way just as damaging. Before we were confined by values and ideals that at least served some purpose, however narrow that might have been. In the modern age the deathly face of apathy and dissolution screams at us behind every beaming, trashy romantic comedy and shallow spoof, behind every slavishly worshipped pop goddess. We are imprisoned by our own lack of originality.

This manifests in how we desperately adopt any semblance of pop culture and ego-material. We are walking advertisements for companies and conglomerates that have nothing to do with us and we perceive ourselves as validated by their labels. What is more, we define our sense of self in relation to the rest of the world by these things. Under the guise of individualism and expressionwe conform to social stereotypes that are ultimately irrelevant, incorrect and often harmful. The same trend can be continued into music and language. The middle-mind has infected almost every area of life, and only a few alert critics are aware of it - or aware at all.

And so, we are stranded in a technocratic cultural wasteland while the ghoulish faces of vacuous and plasticised pop icons and ghastly Hollywood creations stare us into a corner of morbid isolation. We have the illusion of being in control of our lives, but are at a psychic level, lost, aneasthetized and helpless. We are lethargic, dispassionate and willingly so -blinded by our own idiocy and every stereo is blasting the imbecilic, thumping sound of our own damnation.

"The Unofficial Survivor's Guide to Bieber Fever" by C Thwaites

2010-10-10T14:13:00.004+02:00

The aim of this post is just to open people's ears to some awesome music out there that happens to be made by Christians, that is not of the annoyingly-repetitive chapel variation, but rather something you would want to listen to in your spare time. I tried to put something in for everybody whethere you're into screamo, alternative, acoustic, hip hop, Justin Bieber -it's all here (except Bieber... I think we've all had enough of her, right?).

If you are like me then when you hear that these bands are Christian you kind of cringe, and am not sure you want to be preached at for three or four minutes for eleven tracks, so the bands I chose were the bands you would least expect to be god-fearing, with lyrics like: "just boiling in my blood," you wouldn't expect Paramore to be Christian but they very much are. If I've left out any of your favourite bands that happen to be Christian then please feel free to put it in the comments and spread the music.

Alternative Rock:
PARAMORE
Paramore is a female-fronted (Hayley Williams) alternative rock band but is definitely not defined by it, for Hayley's voice overpowers even some of the best male-fronted bands. the lyrics are sincere, deep and are all hidden behind upbeat guitar riffs and catchy melodies, leaving you wanting more.
Their first album "All We Know" was made when they were all still in high school and it shows, their second album has to be their best: "Riot!" where they find their sound. Having gone multiplatinum with RioT!, their success did not end at their latest album: "Brand New Eyes" having also turned platinum has kept the band together. This can be seen in their song, "Ignorance" which contains some spiteful lyrics, but the album is not centered around this and it takes a turn for the better in songs like "Looking Up" which shows the band overcoming of their differences and continuing to write amazing music.

THE ALMOST
Underoath drummer/vocalist Aaron Gillespie branched out almost five years ago in an effort to create The Almost, a side project that was a significant step away from the metalcore sound of his original band. The Almost follows more of a traditional pop rock sound, which certainly allows Gillespie's clean vocal skills to have more of a focus -and deservedly so. The Almost has released two EPs since the initial full-length release (an impressive feat after only a few year's time)

http://www.ultimate-guitar.com/reviews/compact_discs/the_almost/monster_monster_index.html

HOUSE OF HEROES
House of Heroes has not only crafted one of the most intricate, yet catchiest pieces of music to come along in years, but they have also written what is a compelling World War II parallel designed to make us re-examine pre-existing notions on faith, God and country. "The End Is Not The End" is a lush undertaking... thought-provoking, engaging and at times, even epic.
Sounds like... an inventive, sometimes schizophrenic mix of alternative rock and power pop styles that resemble parts of Reliant K, Edison Glass, Weezer, Sanctus Real, Phantom Planet and Green Day.

House of Heroes still manages to keep their alternative pop/rock accessible and clearly grounded by their Christian worldview.

http://www.jesusfreakhideout.com/cdreviews/TheEndIsNotTheEnd2009.asp

Post Hardcore:
SLEEPING WITH SIRENS
Originality. From the generic "chug-chug" breakdowns every five seconds, to the annoying pig squealing, some may think there's no hope for the genre. That is where Sleeping With Sirens comes into play. Sleeping With Sirens are a young five-piece band who know how to write good music. Their debut album, "With ears to See and Eyes to Hear" displays just that. This ten song album displays so much talent, yet so much potential to take the music world by storm.

http://www.absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?t+1630462

FYLEAF
Flyleaf's sound is impressive. They are a hard rock band with a female vocalist, but they get away from that Amy Lee sound that has ruled the female rock scene. The music itself reminds me of Chevelle. It is drop-tuned guitars, heavy riffs, chubbing chords, etc. It is intense music. The music blends extremely well with the singer's voice. This is the first release by Flyleaf. the band is made up of four guys, a drummer, a bass player and two guitarists. Then of course, the female vocalist. Each song is a powerful and unique experience. You find yourself falling in love with the band after each new song. Another similarity to Chevelle is how the singer screams, but it is not something you'll hear in every song. She has an amazing scream, but it is not overused.

http://www.ultimate-guitar.com/reviews/compact_discs/flyleaf/flyleaf/index.html

Metal:
RED
End of Silence 9RED) is a very rare breed of an album. Red couples blistering long metal rock songs with those heart wrenching ballads. The story behind the album is admitting to one's mistakes and accepting Redemption. The power ballad "Already Over" starts on piano and Michael barnes sings of how lost he is without whatever you interpret it as. The chorus swings in the electric guitar as Mike wails that it's already over for him. In retrospect, the last song of the album, "Already Over, Part 2" has the singer finally finding the redemption that he craved. the perspective in "Lost" has the singer telling God that he's lost and needs His help. The hit single "Breathe into Me" is a wailer.

http://www.sputnikmusic.com/review/14796/Red-End-Of-Silence

Skillet:
COMATOSE
Sounds like... a fusion of contemporary hard rock and metal with pop balladry, recalling the work of Evanescense, Creed, Jonah33, Seether, Seventh day Slumber and Stained At A Glance.
With top-notch production and faith-inspired themes relevant to a broader audience, Comatose just might be the most accessible album yet from Skillet, though some of the pop tendencies are a bit too soft.

http://www.thefish.com/music/reviews/11619475/

"Is this friendship?" by J Chambers

2010-10-07T21:23:00.002+02:00

Is this what friendship is meant to be like,
this constant affection,
so harsh that anyone who enters into it
is smothered and latched onto,
taken under.
The constant fighting over unimportant issues
or who's right?

The rivalry for people's attention,
the same someone that all of you like, always.

The unspoken competition over holidays, events, dresses
and boys, they always have to be better.

The fact that they never want to talk about it.
How can they expect you to drop it, to forget?
It's impossible.

The worst of it, however, is not in the issues, but in the repetition.
It would be bearable if it was every now and then,
but it seems to be consistent these days.
And I can't get away for a while
because I think I kind of love them you know.
In a way, they make my day interesting
and without them, life would be boring.

I just wish that I didn't love them,
because it's that or I'd have to ask them to change,
and I can't ask them to change you know,
because I'd hate it if I had to change.
I'm myself, and I like that.

Day by day I'm tested and know
that soon I'm gonna blow,
but for now, my love for them suppresses my anger,
my pain, my tears
and my heartache.

This is not friendship, it is the beginning
of a sisterhood.

"Memory of the Best" by E Pienaar

2010-10-07T21:15:00.002+02:00

"It was a promise, no in fact it was more than that. It was put forward as a statement. Something of certainty, not so?" The old beshrivelled man held his audience's attention with beady squinting eyes that glared out from under the wisened wrinkles that wreathed them in the centre of his old face. He was not a large person. His black, thick-soled soles barely touched the floor as he sat at the table and the long coat that swatched him seemed to suffocate him.

"One would have thought that in a small village such as this where everyone knows everyone down to the names of the geese that swim in the park's pond, you would have remembered a man as marvellous as I."
Looking at him no-one in the village's bar thought that the old man looked anything near marvellous. On closer inspection his teeth were tinged brown, his eye whites yellow and his skin and clothes covered in grime. In fact, close inspection was hardly necessary as even in a passing glance the unkeptness of the old man jumped out, mugged and left one feeling dazed.

It was the village speaker who first responded, "Aye, that is how it is, it is, so we would know you; if we should we would. An' seeing as 'ow nobody 'ere knows you, you never did live 'ere you didn't!"

"Right so Mr Speaker, truly spoken and well at that!" proclaimed Mrs Baker, who baked cakes and buns in Mr Baker's bakery, turning on the old man. "You, old dear, are either an atrocious liar or quite mad and most definitely a semblance of appearance is not one of your marvellous qualities I'm afraid. Quite rude as well I might add, not even supplying a name."

"Well spoken? Madam, I beg to differ! Mr Speaker, pardon me for saying so but, the fact of the matter is that you cannot speak." Mr Speaker stood up indignantly, his face red and eyes bulging.

His words came through gritted teeth, "We Speakers have been speaking since me father's father's father's father. It 'ent easy what I do, you think you could do a better job?"

"Well that goes without saying, but say it I shall! My mastery of the spoken word can hardly be compared to the primitive grunts of your rasping voice!"
The man stood up to his rather unimpressive height, "Mr Saul Bester!" he declared, turning back to Mrs Baker, "And best you remember it!"

"Are we human?" by N du Santos

2010-10-07T21:02:00.002+02:00

There are many conspiracies which make us fearful of what each day will bring. Conspiracies such as "global warming", "the end of the world in 2012" and the search for "new planets". But while more than half the world focuses on these fantastical things, real people are dying, suffering every day in the streets of every country.

Countries spend millions researching our world just to conspire about when it is all going to end. We have been shown things that don't exist as an effort to make us fearful about things we don't know about -and this non-reality has become more of a focus in our lives than Reality. The reality that in many third world countries thousands of people are dying every day due to poverty, hunger and war. But all we care about is our own end in 2012 and about making sure that the planet survives, not its people.

The US government has spent a lot of money during the past few years on building spacecraft to reach the moon, on developing instruments to study stars and other planets but the findings are always either hidden from the public, or the public is fed meaningless information regarding these 'findings'. During the Cold War, Russia and America focused made their priority the construction of spaceships to reach the moon -costing more money ever spent by a government on a single project in history.

But in the real world, like Zimbabwe, people get beaten up and thrown off their land for standing up their government. People die for blood diamonds and oil.

The fact that we do not care as much about the suffering of real people as we do about what we can achieve, where we can go and what can kill us proves that humanity has learned to love material things more than we love Humanity.

We should forget about spending money on these projects and focus on looking after People. Governments should spend more money on helping its people than on trying to outshine other national authorities. We must learn to think about others.

"Eternal Memory" by L Kingwill

2010-10-07T20:51:00.002+02:00

The box is nearly full. Straightening up, I glanced around, looking for anything I missed. It's all here: your glasses, watch, empty wallet, shaving gear, a belt that somehow hadn't been taken with the rest... it seems surprisingly little. I stand still, suddenly aware of sounds travelling up from downstairs. I probably should have been down there ages ago, but I don't move. Instead I anxiously look around again, seeking a distraction, an escape, before reality can penetrate completely. It's the letters that catch my eye; the gleaming gold "PHOTO ALBUM" reflecting the sunlight. I stare for a second, hesitating, then take it off the shelf. The worn red leather is rough and heavy in my hands.

The first is a baby photo, you're perhaps a week old. You sleep with your fists clenched, eyes squeezed tightly shut. A Winnie the Pooh dummy has fallen out ofyour mouth, forming a damp spot on the pillow. "First night in own cot!" reads the inscription below.

Three pages further and you have a fierce frown, flying down a short tar driveway. Eyes wide, mouth open and blonde curls flying, you grip your first bicycle's handlebars tightly, your legs kicked out high above the safety wheels. A red superman cape streams behind you: party hats and cups litter the background. A woman in a floral skirt bends over to pick them up, her back to the camera.

The Matric dance and my entrance. It's the only photo I agreed to that night. The bright light shines on us, you with your tailor-made tux, easy smile and those tussled curls. I smiled timidly in my homespun dress and borrowed high heels, trying to look confident. The jewel-coloured fabrics draping the surroundings seem to enclose us into a perfect portrait.

A wedding photo, taken from a distance without us realizing it. It's late in the evening already, my satin dress gleams faintly in the darkness. Your outline blends into the lake behind us. I lean with my head against your chest, your hand is about to touch my hair.

There we are in Park Town maternity clinic. A nurse must have taken the picture - idiotic but proud and excited smiles shape both our faces. Between us, only a small arm manages to push its way through the swaddle of blankets, reaching up its tiny fingers.

The last page, again in hospital. No smiles now, no matter how hard you tried. The fluorescent light reflects off your bald head, your sunken eyes stare despondently at the camera. Next to you are drawings of stick figures in bright pastel colours. It comes back to me now, the smell of the disinfectant, the sound of crying children and chatting nurses, the machine's endless beep beep beep...

The album falls through my shaking hands to land with a thud on the floor. I stare hard at it, aware that the picture is beginning to blur. From downstairs the sound of murmured voices and clinking glass drifts up to me, surrounds me, breaking through the haze, forcing me to listen. I rush through the glass doors onto the veranda, gasping the fresh sea air. It cools the tears on my face.

His footsteps are so light that I not realise he is there until a small warm hand slips into mine.

"Mommy?" Anxious grey eyes stare up at me from under a mop of tussled blonde hair.
"Mommy, Ouma says it's time to come down now."

For a second, I stare across the street to the constant rolling waves of the ocean.

"It's alright, honey. I'm coming."

I let him lead me back into the room and downstairs. When we enter, I smile.

"Education vs Uniform" by Sasha Tinelli

2010-09-15T21:21:00.004+02:00

Does it really matter what colour socks you are wearing when learning the chemical properties of phosphorus?

Many believe that it makes no difference what you are wearing when you learn something.
In many schools today it is compulsory to wear a certain uniform or if the uniform is not worn correctly the student is in some way prosecuted. But school uniforms also create the very opportunity for such prosecution: a tie and button shirt -students aren't very comfortable and decide to make themselves comfortable, but this is when the trouble starts.

Teachers believe that it is disrespectful for students to dress in their own style. Students, although, feel more comfortable learning in their own clothing. Is a uniform not then a way to make money and simply publicise the "neat" student who represents the school?

Others, however, argue that without a uniform learners are uncontrollable and too relaxed -which is not what school is about. School is about learning and unformity and responsibility.

Whether students are dressed the same, or in their own version of what is fashionable, teachers will still teach the same lessons with the same curriculum; so why does the information not sink in? Because, some say, a student dressed in a way that expresses their individuality will, as a result, act out disrespectfully. If this is true then wearing a uniform is a better policy for a school.
But surely a line should be drawn at the details: handing out detention to students for not wearing a belt or the right socks when the rest of their uniform is correct may be taking it too far. Does a different belt or a more comfortable pair of socks spell loss of control? And of whose?

"Vegetarians vs Meat-etarians" by Lara Schulte

2010-09-15T19:26:00.004+02:00

Are you vegetarian or are you a meat eater? Are you one of these for a reason, or just because it's part of your everyday life to either eat a scrumptious, juicy piece of meat or to eat a veggie burger? Are you wondering what the right choice is?

Personally, I strongly feel that being a vegetarian is a good thing. I am sure you didn't know that for every kilogram of meat, 4 000 litres of water was used? -Another thing we should consider to save more of -water. But that is slightly off topic.

Being a vegetarian is difficult though, especially in a country like South Africa. People here eat meat for breakfast, lunch, dinner and even in between as a snack. South Africans eat biltong like it's part of their recommended daily protein allowance. Eating meat is like brushing your teeth; something you do without even thinking about it. But do they think about that cow that has been killed just to be put into one of those little Woolworths packets and consumed at break time by some child in some school in some place in South Africa?
But I'm not saying it's a bad thing to eat meat. On the contrary, actually.

Meat is the main source of protein for the human body. It is healthy and is needed in the daily diet of the average person. But, is it needed in such high quantities? Is it possible to eat meat but to eat only the necessary amount?
Of course it is. And so our simple conclusion is: eat less meat.

"Rhinos endangered because of Chinese medicine" by Lara Schulte

2010-09-15T19:21:00.002+02:00

There are only eight specimens of the Northern White Rhino left on the earth. The rest have died out, they will never be seen again by man. But maybe that is for the best...

Human = Greed. An equation that has been proven correct by humanity itself. Men kill these poor creatures with nothing else in mind but money. Rhinos get killed for their horns, whereas other animals get killed for their skin. The population of big animals in South Africa has dropped by 59 % since 1970. You know who's responsible for that.

Poachers kill for the meat as well. So basically, animals' lives are being taken and some
animal species are almost extinct because we like the taste of their flesh? I know I may be simplifying the equation here but it is, after all, the truth.

The value of rhino horns lies in China. The rhino horn is ground to make medicine to cure fevers and pain. Surely a different type of medicine can be used, with scientific research advancing by the second in the world we live in today?

Once again mankind is proving itself greedy. The poor creatures are dying out and still man is killing to make some kind of "medicine" to "cure" an ailment that is not even fatal.

"Something Special" by Alexis Wellman

2010-09-15T19:13:00.003+02:00

Breaths teaken;
steps made;
trust earned.
Little things that mark the passing of time.
Time only desired to be spent with you.
Hearts torn when separated;
hearts mending with a new day and the promise of sight.
Little things that mark the beginning of love.

Love only desired to be freed for you.
Connections made;
glances exchanged;
whispers under our breath.
Little things that mark secrets being shared,
Secrets I trust you to keep.
Time, desired, beginning, love, trust and keep.
The little things that mark something special.

Want to find out more about free-verse poetry?
http://www.videojug.com/expertanswer/types-of-poetry-2/what-is-free-verse

"Moonless" by Simone Storey

2010-09-10T12:05:00.003+02:00

I sit alone under the sky,
My soul echoes my heart's cry.

Footprints lead nowhere in the sand,
Cold reaches out its opening hand.

I accept and filled with chill,
I shiver now, numb with thrill.

The night too long, I canot hope
I wonder, how will I cope?

The beach is empty, no smile of joy,
Only dark is left - ready to destroy.

The waves still crash and thrash and beat,
Against me now, as I drown in defeat.

Brave lights shine far, far away,
Meek stars glitter - too scared to play.

Time walk away, leaving me behind,
Who knew Time to be so unkind?

I refuse to have my soul bought,
Bug gasp with breath so short.

For a single moment there is no light,
I sit alone on this moonless night.

"The Feather" by Simone Storey

2010-09-10T12:03:00.001+02:00

When the feather breathes,
The whole world sighs,
When the feather floats,
The heavens rise.

When human sees the feather,
The battle has been won,
When love sees the feather,
A friendship has begun.

When hope sees the feather,
There is a chance to seize,
When I see the feather,
It is carried by the breeze.

"In Solemn's Bed" by Michael Goldsmid

2010-09-10T12:00:00.003+02:00

Time slows, and with each fading tick
I wonder at what might have been
The glinting-gold tapestry has been woven,
And freed men have breathed
While the ground slithers black and a sundried youth
Bathe in a fettered silver dream

An unsmoothed curtain of heaving, rolling red
Clouds my broken vision and wets my bed.
The heart of time and breath is in me,
The cold of summer sun and falling hell
Are coming undone

I've spent my life in quiet limbo,
In unfound promise and glittering regret,
Days have past, detached and loosened from myself,
From that on which my heart was set

In custardy and sun-filled youth
I dreamed of being great and true and wise,
Of an ideal that I have failed
Free me, find me, fetch me, feed me, fail me
A blood-red fruit has fallen from its tree.

Have I spent a single moment drinking in life's honeyed milk?
Has meaning filled me, or covered my tracks?
Or should I thank you for what was?
As I sit in Solemn's bed and inhale a stale, quiet dread.
I think of a life well lived, well fed
If I should stand on the threshold of eternal rest,
And be invited in,
I might hope that a life's time was used closely,

And that I do not stand alone and think
Without flaxen life's evanescent ink.

"The Last Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy" by Sarah de Villiers

2010-09-10T11:57:00.005+02:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ULiNR-k4m70

Autumn's glory had flickered and faded,
Spring had blossomed the delights she offered,
And Summer had her rays worn weary and dim.
Now the emptiness of Winter began to consume all that remained.

A fleck of light and the scent of glee,
One note hung loosely in the air.
A twirl, a leap, a flash of life.
A twinkling laugh and glittering eyes.
Paused, the forest listened to the memory.

A dew drop shivered and a petal froze
As the bitter breeze stalked the sounds of joy.
A tender, tip-toed dance of grace
In a dress of Dawn's splendour
Had the sinister cold creeping
Towards the heart of the woods.

Her swan-like arms and blissful soul
Celebrated the icy day,
With a swirl and a song,
A smile and a skip.
But the cold it did her seek.

And beneath that empty washed-out sky,
Beside the dying rose,
A Sugarplum Fairy her last dance did love,
Before the cold it did her find.

"It was a pleasure to burn" by Alexander Schwalb

2010-09-08T21:36:00.003+02:00

"It was a pleasure to burn," said Amelia van Delizor to the grim reaper. "No, honestly. When they lit the fire I had pure delight. Even if they didn't tie me up, I still wouldn't have tried to escape." Grim just look at her and had a look in the cavity where his eyes should be that said, "Oh no, not another crazy one."

They were on a small boat on the River Styx. It was night, but there were no stars in the sky.
The light from Grim's lantern didn't travel far in the thick mist. Grim started speaking. You could see his jaw bones moving, but his deep voice was coming from all around. It make faint ripples in the flat, dreary water around the boat. He said to Amelia, "It's a long trip to... you know where you are going. Tell me about your life story."

"My mom died giving birth to me in 1818 in England. It was probably then when I developed my unique syndrome. Ever since I could remember, I loved getting hurt. My father was one of the leading biologists in that time. He sad there were two connections in my brain that crossed and therefore I perceived pain as pleasure.

When I was eleven, my father never returned from the woods after hunting. The street was my new home. I would have gone hungry for weeks. I could only drink muddy water from the puddles. The sky was my roof, but it had some leaking problems. I was a vagabond at the bottom of the chain of being. Most would have hated my life, but I loved it. It was my
paradise to be freezing at night and being so hungry it hurt. I loved everything from the rashes and sores to the rat bites and infections.

After a few years I unfortunately became used to the pain, and I had to find new ways to hurt myself. I would usually run into walls at full pace or jump off of houses. I would damage other people's property so that they would hurt me. Everyone knew me by my surname, Van Delizor. It became a new term, that if someone damanged someone else's goods, you would that they vandalize.

People came from far and away to see me hurt myself. When the king heard of me, he hired me to entertain him. Those were the best years of my life, because in the castle, they had torture machines. The king offered me my own royal chamber, but I chose to sleep outside. Sadly, there were no rats near the castle.

The archbishop did not like me, so he convinced the king to send me back to live with the peasants. It wasn't the same without the torture devices, so things went bad. I started stealing pitchforks to stab myself. I drank poison every night. I ate my own flesh!
By now, people had grown tired of me. They accused me of being a witch.

Then came the happiest few minutes of my life -my death. I was publically burned. It is obvious that if one's ultimate pleasure is pain, then one's happiest moment in life is death. That day, the last Van Delizor died."

In the distance, Amelia saw the shore at the end of the River Styx. The small boat stopped in the sand. There were two inter-dimensional doors. The Grim Reaper said, "All witches go through the left door, so will you. I am sorry. You seem so friendly, but it's not my decision to make." Amelia replied, "Don't be sorry, I am going to love this!"

You may wish to read more about women like Amelia who were accused of witchcraft in Salem in 1692 at http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/salem.htm

"The Meaning of Life" by Daniel Baker

2010-09-01T22:39:00.004+02:00

The meaning of life lies unto ourselves
With limitless bound'ries and timeless walls;
I care not for I understand myself:
The meaning of life never fails, nor falls.
Maybe it will stop and wait for a few,
Trust me, it's not waiting for you -but for:
Those who play their cards right, bring luck to view,
Life is a journey with its own dancefloor.
Whene'er I live and love, or love and die,
And trust the future to set all things fair,
Open my mind to the cornerless sky,
To find my inner self, I truly dare.
To live is to love, to love is to gain;
And I also, I shall be back again.

"What I Fear" by Sonya Linkov

2010-09-01T22:28:00.006+02:00

Boys should not be touched. No, should not be brushed against. Every extra kilogram; every twinge of nausea must be investigated. Menstruation days must be crossed off with joyous red ink. My greatest fear creeps from within, siphoning blood and stretching tissues and enslaving the body.

Pregnancy.

I suffer from chronic stomach pains, with a nervous habit of clutching my stomach as I walk, and a day without nausea is inconceivable. Dr Hosking put it down to anxiety, folded his hands together and said that, unfortunately, there is not much he can do for me. But I know that it is a warning, or a premonition. The hollow teardrop-shaped shrine within me is protesting, punishing me and punishing the world which created it.

Young girls are taught to fear the consequences: the parents' rage; the lost childhood and education; the slow trickling away of society. Yet worse than the tears and the closed future and the judgment, I fear the thing itself: wrapping my body around itself, then emerging in a scarlet flood with blinking eyelashes like whips, taking in the world and plotting how to rule it.

On the beach, in the supermarket, on the school grounds even, I scan every passing girl's or woman's stomach with wide eyes. Should I see one straining against clothes, the initial desperate urge to find a restroom is replaced by curiosity about the woman. Furtively, like a smitten boy, I peer at her face. Usually serence as a marble Madonna-to-be; never hateful. I lower my eyes in guilt. As she moves on, my eyes stray upwards again, and I peel away the cradle of membranes, blood and amniotic fluid.

A dumb swimmer, neatly folded like a picture in the midwifery textbook. Gilled like a fish and beaked like a bird. A little heart and a little brain like red cherries in a warm, bloody jelly. A blameless criminal, hung on a rope that can resurrect or strangle. An alien. A monster...

Babies. Everywhere I look; babies in prams, babies on television, babies on the tongues of women as they balance their teacups and slices of cake... I wonder, do a woman's hopes and dreams, her drive for autonomy, her power - in short, everything that separates her from an egg-laying hen - blow away like paper birds at that first cry?

Could I end a life? That is the question that looms out of the deep. Plastic dolls in sterile buckets. The grime-coated inside of a shack, and a woman with a coat-hanger. Cord-strangled ditch-delivereds. How much can the nervous systems stretching their feathery fingers through the little body feel? And yet, is it not better to die innocent than to live the life of a timid forest creature amongst refuse bags, fight crows for another bread crust, run as Mother hurls a punch or a knife...? Better I will not be able to offer.

I think about childbirth. The cold steel torture tale, my belly obscuring view; the doctors shouting inanities whilst judging; hating. All this time, the pain, the ocean of pain; screaming; my alien stomach hanging marble-heavy around my head, and then once every drop of strength has been wrung out of me as though I am a scrap of washing, the screaming of another voice...

The vision fades in oily slicks of nausea as I imagine the baby, plump and smiling, in a pram sprigged with ribbons. First tentative steps; every gurgle a mispronounced first word.

The love sticks in my throat, and I turn away.

"To a boy raped at Abu Ghraib Prison" by Sonya Linkov

2010-09-01T22:20:00.004+02:00

They pinned your nerves out on the screen
Curled you in formaldehyde, small singularity
Bound you with sinews, pulled ends in a bow
And sold and re-sold you, gift and discardment,

To us at half-price with the evening bulletin.
Glued together; propped up; not quite human.
One ambidextrous hand, or rather a paper bag
Over a face more interesting to this sideshow.

Should we mourn you? The advent of disgust
Tainted such thoughts, besides it wasn't our duty.
Yet somehow, the accusation when it caught us
Had to scream, because our heads were bowed.

How could we dare to disregard the women? You
Became a small passing, smothered in suffering.
The burqas soared like terrible birds as the sun
Forgot you, and a fence imprisoned the wind

And needles pierced our lips to silence. Unlike you
-Apologies, the women - we had never learnt
The language of rape. And still we chose to stay
At this funeral, this circus, this ever causeless rally.

We know rapes are undemanding. They refuse
Toys, obey a skilled keeper, propagate so easily.
Have few qualms on diet. Mouths necklaced
With saliva, they roar like African cats: Meat!

One chanced to find you, beneath that bloody sun...
We swarmed; we lapped your cloud of shame,
We thought a virgin's blood, the purest of the pure
Once spilled, could heall all ills. So why did yours

Have such a bitter taste? Had it been sullied by
The rust upon the scale we chose to weigh it on?
Your frailty on one side, the women on the other:
The only way we knew. Perhaps, it would be best

To let your blood-wings fly you to the women.
They would cradle your teardrop-heavy head
And stroke it through that egocentric spasm when
Amidst human dust and city shards, you dared

To pray for a shroud.

"Over the Edge" by Emma Tough

2010-09-01T22:10:00.005+02:00

Unlike most teenagers I was not interested in my image or status. I did not care for gadgets or accessories. Relationships, as well as friendships, were beyond me. There was only one thing that mattered in life and that was flying.

I would wake up early every Saturday morning and make my way to the bumpy farm runway. Billy, the old manager, would take me up and we would circle until we reached a thousand feet. Billy would then press the releae button, the door would shoot open, I would count slowly to five, take a deep breath and then jump.

There is nothing like the feeling of falling at terminal velocity, knowing that the parachute might not open but not caring. All you can see through blurry, watery eyes is the earth moving slowly towards you. The wind rushes past your ears, drumming out all thought. My body was pummelled and moulded by just the sheer force of the air. Nothing and no one mattered in that moment, except me.

After a matter of seconds I would pull the parachute and make my slow decent onto the field. Those last few minutes hanging in the air under a great cloud of silk were always filled with excitement and disbelief at what I had just experienced.

There is nothing in the world as freeing and uplifting as stepping out of your box and over the edge.

"Media at War" by Nicolai Haussamer

2010-09-01T21:35:00.003+02:00

When nations are at war, we turn to the media to give us, what we believe, is a truthful and unbiased account of the events taking place in the world. Without the internet, television, newspapers, magazines, radios and countless other forms of media, we would be somewhat lost in confusion and ignorance of that which happens around us. However, sometimes what we are told to accept as the truth or adopt as the right perspective is cleverly manipulated to indoctrinate certain beliefs, not shared by the general public and potentially detrimental to a nation at war, and so the clash between the freedom of expression and various other rights and freedoms enter the fray.

When we talk about war, we are discussing conflict. Not an argument or a debate; war means bloodshed. It determines who lives and who dies. During war a constant threat exists towards the common man on the street and the welfare of a country as a whole on a much larger scale. One issue which has become prevalent in the world is the censorship of the media during times of war, id est a government's restriction of certain articles, photographs or broadcasts which may be made public. The word "restriction" immediately aggravates human rights activists and other liberals who believe that, given any set of circumstances, freedoms should not and can never be forfeited. While their argument may remain valid this is, however, only one side of the argument.

In the context of South Africa, which is not presently at war (on any international level anyway - fueds between political parties are a different matter), it is relatively easy to conclude which arguments would arise, should the media be censored by government during a war. As previously mentioned, there is the view of the rights activist, or more realistically, the freedom activist. After all, the only problem which these members of the public can advocate against is the restriction of the freedom of expression, nothing else. Section 16 in Chapter 2 of the Constitution of South Africa states that, "everyone has the right to freedom of expression, which includes freedom of the press and other media; freedom to receive or impart information or ideas; freedom of artistic creativity; and academic freedom and freedom of scientific research." From this is seems only logical that the media should have the freedom to do as they wish and publish whatever they see fit.

Yet the fact that this is only a freedom is pivotal in the argument for media censorship. Before this argument can be fully understood, a clear distinction has to be made between rights and freedoms. While there is a rather fine line between the two, there is a fundamental difference. Rights are something which all people in South Africa have, irrespective of nationality, race, gender or even legal status. A freedom, on the other hand, is the power to act without imposed restraints as one wants, but, importantly, is subject to limitations or complete removal. To clarify: everyone has the right not to be subjected to slavery or forced labour, meaning that, given any condition, nobody in our country may be forced into labour intensive tasks if it is not their will. Everybody also has the freedom of trade, occupation and profession, however, one cannot trade vast quantities of abalone acquired and possessed illegally. So it should be clear that rights have to remain in place, no matter what, while a freedom is subject to being limited, changed or removed.

What remains is the analysis of the argument from the side of the government, which is also valid given the above clarification of rights and freedoms. As explained in the introductory paragraph, war means conflict; conflict means life and death. Everyone has the right to life, and as a right, this supersedes the freedom of expression. In all likelihood, the question on the reader's mind is something along the lines of, "How do the two correlate?" It seems outlandish to make such a strong statement without sufficient evidence as to why it is important, so it needs to be expanded and explained by reference to:

"The whole is greater than the sum of its parts."

It is necessary to adopt the perspective of the common man while his country is at war. Suddenly, life has changed. Everything has become more difficult. Inflation and taxation has increased to accommodate for the excessive use of resources and an increased national defence budget, and this means a lower quality of life for the common man earning (hopefully) the same salary as before the conflict. This, naturally, causes the man to be upset or angry, but there is nothing he can really do about it. At the end of the day, when he reclines in front of the television, the anchorman with the optimistic smile reassures him that his country is one step closer to ending the conflict and making life better for all, and so the man can feel better with the reassurance that things will improve; life will get better, eventually.

If the media has full freedom during times of war, a potentially cataclysmic problem could arise. With the freedom of expression in full swing, those whose beliefs stand against the war and the government would have their views broadcasted, their horrific photographs displayed and attempts to turn the general public against the government printed. In turn, this lack of faith in the government's course of action would result in division within a nation. Gradually people would begin to listen to these arguments and reason that the government is acting, as they see it, incorrectly. During a conflict, there is only one way for the public to effectively convey such a belief to the powers that be: protest. Whether in the form of strike action or destructive marches through the streets, people would gather in mass and abandon their jobs, and thus their necessary contribution to society. From this, the government would be fighting on two fronts, making it a lot more difficult to sustain the welfare of their country. In fact, the potential exists for a nation to collapse from the inside, as various sectors shut down as a result of infuriated, dissatisfied protest. In its weakness, the country remains unable to defend itself and so it is attacked or invaded and countless civilian lives are lost.

Everybody has the right to life, and as such, it is the government's mandate to ensure, by any means necessary, that this right is upheld. From the previous analysis it is evident that in such a scenario, the government will have to protect the citizens of its nation from themselves. This may sound ludicrous, but the majority of people do not have the higher order understanding required to see that is of utmost importance not to have a massive movement against the government while their country is actively at war. Even if the reasons for the war are illegitimate, it is better for the nation to remain undivided.

The right to life supersedes the freedom of expression. Expression is a dangerous thing which threatens the lives of a nation's citizens when the nation is at war. While governments should always do their best to allow freedoms to be exercised, there are more important rights which have to be upheld and so perhaps it is, in fact, better to allow media censorship during war. Ideas which promot division, when set free in the public domain, lead to division. A country cannot uphold itself when divided. After all, "the whole is greater than the sum of its parts."

"We cannot afford to lose" by Hayden Searle

2010-09-01T21:30:00.003+02:00

No one saw it coming. It came out of the unknown and killed millions. We were not prepared. We were not warned. We didn't stand a chance. Years later some stood up, took a stand, fought for survival. But it seemed to be too little too late. With millions already dead and dying, could it be stopped?

Does this sound like a preview to a new Terminator movie? Maybe another apocalyptic prediction?

Well it has happened. And it is here.

After many years of fighting in every way we know how, without a cure and thousands more dying, we have found other methods to eradicate the Red Plague. And it seems as if we may survive, even win. Drugs can only prolong the sufferer's life, but they cannot stand against death indefinitely. Prevention has become the best way to survive the onslaught, and it is working.

But we need to remember that we are fighting the disease, not the people who are suffering from it. In these times of crisis, compassion, love and honesty are just as necessary in fighting the disease head on, as the pursuit of a cure. There are few ways that one can contract the virus, and things such as hugs or sharing a cup or fork with HIV positive people will not get you infected. Treat sufferers of the disease with love and compassion - they are not the disease.

We will defeat HIV and AIDS, we can win this war.

"The Idea that Killed" by Michael Goldsmid

2010-09-01T21:15:00.006+02:00

The Nature of Apocalyptic Religion and Modern Political Ideology

The religion and dominant philosophies that shaped the past predict the end of the world. Big statement. But, it essentially confirms a belief, or rather, an assumption that the overwhelming majority of Westerners still have. Nevertheless, one has to wonder what the end of the world means, and what parts of those philosophies predict it. Essentially, the end of the world means the end of the world as we know it, and the creation of utopia.

Think Christianity - The Book of Revelations predicts a new age, a time where Christ would rule utopia for a thousand years, and this would be attained by a purification, whereby all non-believers and wrong-doers (essentially all those who do not confirm to the ideals and values as set out by Christianity) would be left behind in the Rapture. All true believers are allowed to enjoy the kingdom of heaven, but being part of "the chosen few" seems to depend on whether you are the right denomination of Christian, (although no one really knows what that is yet). In essence the idea that we are interested in here is that, as it is implied, the modern world is plagued by evils and these things need to be destroyed, after which a new, better age will begin.

Modern 'political religions', whether extinct or not, share this view. Communism, Nazism and Jacobinism - these have all had a huge effect on the modern world. They had the notion that the world needed to be cleansed. But, what is the difference here? In Christianity, it was God who would bring about the end of the world, not man. This distinction, ironically, was brought about by something quite un-Christian - the enlightenment. As culture was detaching itself from the tenets and praxis of religion, and attempting to find itself in rational analysis and fact, it could not rid itself of this idea that had imprinted itself onto the collective consciousness of Europeans. And so - because, as Nietzsche famously stated, "God is Dead" - who would bring about the apocalypse, but man?

Revolutionary culture all began with the French Revolution. Here the evils in question were the very real ones created by a classist system and an ineffectual monarchy. The Reign of Terror, led by Robespierre and the Jacobins, led to the deaths of from 18 000 to 40 000 people. Violent repression was used to crush resistance to the government - after all, who was to stand in the way of utopia? Things needed to change, and if a perfect world was to be created, the exercise of violence was considered acceptable to ensure this. Thus, democracy was born.

Violent change has been inextricably associated with revolution. Another example is communism, where the perceived ills were inequality and modern culture. Twenty million died. Nazism held that the major cause of the problem was cultural inferiority - Jews chiefly. Eleven million died, six million of which were Jews. The Third Reich was to be ruled by a chosen few, and was meant to last for a thousand years - sound familiar?

As for perfect people, the story is similar. The Ubermensch (the super man) was a part of Nietzsche's philosophy - a goal towards which humanity should work. In National Socialism, it led to the idea of the Aryan Race, and attempts to create this super-race were made, attempts such as the SS (the idea was to build a force of physically and mentally superior Aryans representative of the Nazi ideology) and Nazi breeding programmes. Scientific racism and eugenics, although also spurred on by the European assumption of superiority upon finding supposedly inferior native inhabitants during the age of discovery, fit into the idea of the Ubermensch.

Even though they may have tried to escape the influence of religion, the idea that killed remained. All of these ideologies have several things in common. They all essentially believed that they could create utopia. A chosen few would be allowed to exist in this world. And most importantly, they held that the world needed to be rid of the "evils" that beset it. The problem, in Christianity, Communism and Nazism, is that they assume that these evils can be destroyed. It is always evil that stands in the way of transformation, and never the flaws inherent in human nature. It is this fact, that human nature doesn't change, that is the reason that all those ideologies in their purist form, failed. The exception being Christianity, because, in this case the instigator of change was God, not man.

However, the idea that killed, might also be called the idea that birthed. From both the wonderful and terrible results of its existence, we have important and workable concepts such as democracy, inalienable human rights and most importantly -freedom.

"I can't see my eyes" by Alexander Schwalbe

2010-08-25T21:41:00.003+02:00

Judas came to me
And he told me to betray
The ones I love
In an unholy game we play

Choices, I had none
I had to rip an entire page
Out of the book of life
Or I'd be kicked off stage

I have lied enough
To myself and you all
It was all my own idea and my fault
To make the golden anvil fall

The black sonnet still echoes
Inside this tyrant's mind
The only altruistic deed I can do
Is suicide

Now the angels caught me,
They know ev'ry lie is true
Better hope I don't escape,
'Cause then I'll come for you

I know I deserve this,
I know I am a sinner
Although I walk on clouds,
The ice becomes thinner

I am beyond time,
This pain lasts an eternity
The angels torment me,
I'll never be free

My mind is distorted;
My heart is full of lies
My hair blows in the wind,
And they cut out my eyes

I jumped up to shout in agony
The dark doesn't affect the blind man,
For the blind man cannot see

A single roar of my powerful voice
Blew out the faint candle light
I killed them with the aid of echoing noise
Now my curse is to hunt in the night

I fly the seven skies
To the four far corners of the earth
Dark and light fuse with day and night
The result: my birth

I am the dawn you seek
I chase the dusk you fear
The blood of the blind makes the piper weep
And it draws the vampires near

The pharoah killed the serpent
And he heeds the calls of my cries
The ranger refuses to repent
I CAN'T SEE MY EYES

An eye for an eye made me blind,
And such will it do to most
But if you're nice you lose no eyes,
But don't dare boast

This was said by Ghandi,
It was his conception
But with only one eye
You lose depth perception

How can I cry if I have no eyes?
Where do the tears come from?
Grim reaper please tell me,
Your eyes too are gone
I am blind but I don't see black,
I see the future now
It's a psychedlic world of war
And it knows only one sound

THAT SOUND IS METAL!!!

The brewer brews with poison ivy
In the carnival of slaves
In the unknown spiral of the galaxy
Hidden in the inter-dimensional cosmic caves

I go to the end of the universe
Trying to find synthetic optics
Then I can lift my curse
But which eye will I pick?

I am the dawn you seek
I chase the dusk you fear
The blood of the blind makes the piper weep
And it draws the vampire near

The pharoah killed the serpent
And he heeds the call of my cries
The ferryman refuses to repent
I CAN'T SEE MY EYES

Right and left
Wrong and correct
There was a theft
Myself I suspect

Repent for your sins
Revenge for theirs
The freemasons won't free my sons
And broken hearts, the blacksmith can't repair

Unless it's a heart of gold!

As I have no sight
I travel faster than light
How can I be limited by something I don't perceive?
How can I be stopped if I believe?

But I'm going too fast,
I'm going into space
Heading straight for Jupiter,
I'm gonna lose my face

Mayday! Mayday!...

Am I in heaven, am I in hell
If I had eyes, maybe I could tell
If I'm dead,
Where's my requiem mass
Something clicked in my head
Made of Jupiter's gas!

I am the dawn you seek
I chase the dusk you fear
The blood of the blind makes the piper weep
And it draws vampires near

The pharoah killed the serpent
And he heeds the call of my cries
The ferryman refuses to repent
I CAN'T SEE MY EYES

"About: love, I guess" by James Silvester Davies

2010-08-25T20:29:00.002+02:00

Hello dear reader, and if you don't mind here is a question: have you ever heard of a philosopher by the name of Virgil?

If you have, well done! I assume you are one of those clever people who like to pester teachers and annoy classmates by asking questions like you are auditioning for Who wants to be a millionaire? (which you may well do, annoying classmates even more by winning tons of cash for what is essentially a load of trivial piffle). If you have not, join the club. In all honesty, I thought virgil was a sort of verb (virgil: v. constant vigilance of thought and deed. Hmmm :-O) until a couple of weeks ago when I found out that he was the author of the oft quoted phrase "love conquers all". And then I read the thoughts of a man trying to interpret this.

I am of course referring to the little known author Leontyne Bennett in his book The Commonwealth of Lost Vanities. Obviously.

(It's very difficult to write sarcastically. So just use your imagination, think sarcasm sundae with quirk and humour sauce with maybe a dollop of irony).

Anyway, time to cut the cake :-D. Leontyne's book manages to masterfully dissect a phrase that is prized by many aficianados and romanticised by teenage girls (read twilight-enthusiasts) the world over. It's actually quite sinister, Leontyne points out that virgil never said love frees all, or love accommodates all. No it's love conquers all: "conquer-vb 1 To overcome. 2 To defeat. 3 To gain possession or control of by means of force or war. 4 To enslave." (Collins english Dictionary; 2000). Love conquers all, the bad and the good. Love will take you over completeley and enslave your life, is the gist of Leontyne's words and that Virgil's words were not a cute announcement but a warning to evade this feeling at all costs!

Leontyne died alone in 1984 from cirrhosis of the liver, no-one attended his funeral but his housekeeper and his Editor from Tyrolian press, so we can safely assume that he followed his own miserable advice. But it is worth heed. Sometimes love hits us like a bolt from the blue, it's beautiful and we cannot but live with it, it would be a crime not to. But if the rose tint on your glasses is turned up too high one can miss nasty character traits and mistake someone for being perfect; true love is still loving someone once your realise that they are not.

So that's my message; it probably doesn't help your teenage angst at all, but please don't forget to tip when you win a Million dollars.

"There's an Albino in the cupboard and I've misplaced the keys" by Peter Viljoen

2010-08-25T20:18:00.006+02:00

Before I begin, no this is not the reiteration of a particularly wild Saturday night filled with hilarious and cliche moments like "Dude, where's my car?" Nor is this going to be some sort of really odd "coming out of the closet" story filled with innuendoes that will leave some sniggering and others blushing. No, this is a pointless descriptive article about a creature prone to the outskirts of the social savannah; living separated and rejected by almost all walks of high school life...the nerd.

What is a nerd, how is he made? Does he slowly morph into his true form, or is a Nerd born, as it were, fully-spectacled? Some say it is purely contextual, the environment of the youth determines the outcome e.g. social evolution where all the big fish grow legs and one decided a retainer was in order.

Others believe that it is genetic. A person who is categorised (for my convenience) a nerd is usually a person lacking fundamental or basic social skills. Can it be that if we were to dissect a specimen we would find a smaller or larger brain, weaker eyes, skewer teeth and in some cases (Thank you Ronald Dahl) a broken heart?

Can it not be that we who are the oppressors are in the wrong? That we are in fact missing out on countless new and anti-social ways to ... um, socialize? Maybe... but let's just think of it like this: why should they be like us and why should we be like them?

We spend our breaks and free time gossiping, spreading lies, slandering and being wicked. But why not? These conversations are the ones that are normally the most fun to listen to and easy to contribute to, and in fact it has become part of our culture. But before you start feeling guilty just ask yourself this: When you sit down in the IT room and find your screen sending you angry messages in Brazilian, or flashing colours the eye was never meant to see, is it a coincidence that my bespectacled friends in the corner are giggling into their retainers?

The truth is that they are who they are and who they are is who they want to be. So leave them alone. My philosophy when it comes to the high school Chain of Being is simple: leave well enough alone. Everyone is exactly where they want to be and if they're not, then they're just not trying hard enough.

I respect the humble nerd, they have a hard time, but they are not alone or few enough in number to feel truly disliked, just different. We don't all have to be pals, so long as we can all just do our own thing, hey, leave them alone - they have World of War Craft and I have a tan.

"Artz Week/24/Daze" by John Lategan

2010-08-24T19:46:00.002+02:00

To the matrics who were wrongly denied their Arts Celebration; and an appeal to review the Arts programme for 2011.

Months upon months pass of sports matches, derby days, swimming pool fund-raising and calls for better and more sport facilities. But the damp in the bands' rehearsal space, the cramped-ness of the music room and the lack of a devoted theatre-facility is ignored: the Chapel is a chapel and the hall architecturally prevents sound from developing and thus cannot, rather, should not be used for plays and orchestral or band performances; 'twas designed for indoor sports.

So after having to endure all that, the one short week that the school focused on the Arts was always the highlight of my year. It may not necessarily have been everyone's highlight, but absolutely everyone did enjoy Artz Week. It was - besides Founders' Day, which does not really count as a student orientated tradition - the only tradition that the College recognized.

Artz Week was great. All the arts were acknowledged and it fit into the school time table beautifully. There'd be normal lessons, because the academic programme ought not to be interrupted. The Art Exhibition would take place in the hall for the duration of the week. Read and Current Affairs - two non-academic periods - would be used for Interhouse Debating and other presentations. A performer or troupe would entertain us in the last two period of Wednesday and another on Friday. And of course, the most beloved of all activities: the Interhouse Singing and Plays. These would happen in the evenings.

Thus, at most, two hours thirty minutes of actual lesson-time would be missed in that entire week; but those two and a half hours were enjoyed to the utmost by the student body, and it was a worthy tradition to uphold.

Artz 24 was introduced in 2009. It was one single day dedicated to the Arts: one day that failed. That is the truth; and we should not be ashamed to admit that Arts 24 did not succeed as well as it could have.

Because it was only one day, planning a decent programme was difficult. There was no build-up to the Interhouse Singing. The Art exhibition was only attended to for one day. the 'non-interhouse plays' were under-supported: as few people were involved and they had no Interhouse spirit. All the other Arts-week related events were cancelled. Artz 24 was an entire day missed, and not fully enjoyed.

As a result, we celebrated Artz Daze this year. I must admit that Daze was rather enjoyable; and that I was hoping to write about how bad Artz Daze was and that we need Artz Week back. But I cannot. However, the school needs to return to the original principles of Artz Week! Revive the tradition!

The Arts should be celebrated over a few days. The eisteddfod was an awesome idea (thumbs-up Chapman). My only regret is that I couldn't experience more: that is the unfortunate side of having the different sections run simultaneously.

If we celebrate the arts over a longer period of time, we can bring back Interhouse Singing and the Interhouse Plays, the essence of the Arts Celebration. Incorporate these into the eisteddfod and still bring in professional performers -that is a sure way of truly celebrating the arts.

Substantailly less (about four hours less) lesson time was "lost" during Arts Week than during both Artz 24 and Artz Daze. There is no just reason not to Celebrate, Appreciate and Sophisticatedly Elaborate on the Arts!

"Love" by Megan Davison

2010-08-24T07:35:00.000+02:00

When there's someone you love,
But you want to leave,
How do you say goodbye?
When you say goodbye what happens to that person?
Will they ever forgive you?
Will you destroy them?
How do you move on?
But if they are the one,
Then why would you leave?

"Initiation": right or rite? by Ryan Venter

2010-08-23T19:49:00.005+02:00

A rite of passage is defined as the transition from one social status into another through the performance, celebration and acknowledgment of symbolic actions or rituals.

Implementation and completion of rites of passage play an integral part in the development of an individual's growth as a person, regardless of religion, nationality, race or gender.

There are many rites of passage that are acknowledged and celebrated in society, such as one's bachelor party or bridal shower; coming of age or graduation, however, there are also those rites of passage that may have a significant influence on one's integration into a new status: such as initiation, that are neglected.

Many institutions, due to isolated, negative results and conflicting opinions, choose to ban initiation as a rite of passage from primary to high school.

Unfortunately, the minority of substantiated negative outcomes plague this rites' condemned reputation, such as the tragic story of the 14 year-old, Michael Velem, who drowned during his initiation at Wynberg Boys High School and Paarl schoolboy, Marnus Theron (14),who found himself in hospital due to severe food poisoning. Are these incidents a consequence of initiation or the product of a deplorable monitoring system?

The sporadic occurrences of shark attacks make head-line news; by applying a similar approach one should ban all activities in waters where sharks may swim. Yet no such ban exists. Clearly risk in itself cannot be the sole justification for a ban.

The plethora of benefits of the rite of passage is well documented. Does a ban serve only to spite those who stand to benefit most?

References:
Schronen, Johan, 18 January 2000, "Initiation rites nipped in the bud"
http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=105&art_id=ct20000118100725621530939, Accessed 16 August 2010.

" 'Prefect' perfect" by Len Botha

2010-08-23T19:37:00.000+02:00

A trait of society that I find particularly annoying is the tendency to make unnecessary name changes. In a manner this has been discussed often recently due to the decision to move away from using the term Prefect. I think that people are not annoyed as much by the change in name as by the perceived loss in status. Let's be honest, being a Prefect sounds much better than being a Portfolio Leader. But I can understand why the school thinks it is a good idea for the name to change.

The word Prefect, according to Pocket Oxford English Dictionary, is defined as being "A senior pupil who is appointed to enforce discipline in a school". I agree with the decision-makers in the school that this sounds very much like a policeman and is not what the spirit of the job is about anymore; I disagree that a name change is necessary. Not only is it moving away from something that is tried and tested but doing so may detract from the pride Prefects have about their positions. When making a decision like this it is important to consider why it is being made and to ensure that it be made for the right reasons.

The jobs that Prefects at the College carry out are very different from the definition given above, except for in assembly and Chapel where enforcing discipline is exactly what the Prefects are expected to do, despite the fact that we are apparently allowed to talk quietly. I see no reason that the definition of the word cannot be adjusted to suit the times. English is still, contrary to popular belief, a developing language. Apart from the job not suiting the common definition of the word anymore I think that the desire to change the name is also due to 'peer-pressure' from other schools and institutions.

Every time the name changing is discussed with students the speaker is always sure to mention that we are not the only school to move away from using the term Prefect. I think they mean this to be reassuring, to let us know that it isn't only us who are taking the plunge. Personally, all this tells me is that we are not very good at coming up with original ideas. Instead, we are more like sheep that just follow where others have gone before. To me, changing the name because other schools are doing it, and because it updates our school's image, sounds very much like giving into peer-pressure, which I am sure you have all been told in Life Orientation can be a very bad thing to do. However, I think it is important to point out that I am not against all name changes.

It can often occur that a name may pick up negative connotations, or may become completely obsolete. In a case like this, I think it is appropriate to change the name to something more acceptable, in order to avoid conflict. An example of this would be the renaming of streets which - due to Apartheid - had offensive names. This helped to alleviate conflict and racial tensions. However, examples of unnecessary name changes were the renaming of streets and places that were not offensive. The unnecessary renaming of such places made many people angry and caused more problems than it solved. Therefore I think any name change should be considered very carefully before being executed.

"Dream Filly" by Nicola du Plessis

2010-08-23T19:35:00.000+02:00

Witnessed the birth of that chestnut filly
Blaze pure white
Clear in the night
Told them my dream, which they found quite silly.

As she grew, we saw her athleticism
It inspired me to proclaim:
"The July will beher aim."
Lo and behond, it received no criticism.

It is the first Saturday in July
Briskly she jumps from her pen and
Just like that 'barren doe' she starts to fly.

Thunder in her hooves,
Fire in her heart,
Victorious she proves!

A take on "Willem Prinsloo's Peach Brandy" by Herman Charles Bosman -Nicola du Plessis

2010-08-23T19:27:00.003+02:00

The theme of this story can be summarized in two words: guile and gullibility. The narrative is simple and uncomplicated. Bosman relates how a young Schalk Lourens attended a dance at the farm of Willem Prinsloo near a place called Abjaterskop in the Great Marico. Prinsloo is a "celebrity" because of his ability to stoke strong mampoer -a peach based beverage that contains a high percentage of alcohol.

We read that Prinsloo's daughter, Grieta was due back from finishing school where she had gone to learn "English manners and dictation and other high-class subjects." All the young men in the district were invited to attend a dance at Prinsloo's farm. Schalk recalls that they were "all somewhat nervous to meet Grieta."

The picture reflects and portrays a young girl in Victorian splendour: that is precisely how I imagine Grieta looked when she arrived at the dance - complete with roses in her hair. She is described as "tall and slender and very pretty" and her dark hair was braided with "a wreath of white roses." The author then proceeds to tell us of Schalk's clumsy attempts to woo Grieta.

We read about a conversation between Schalk and Grieta and how awkwardly he tried to convey his affection for her. She slipped away from him but left one of her roses behind. Schalk in his naive way interpreted this as a token of her affection.

Schalk and the other young men had too much to drink of Willem Prinsloo's peach brandy. Schalk tried to catch Grieta but fell in the process. He picked up the rose and displayed it in his hat when he returned to the dance; and "it caused quite a stir."

The story ends when Schalk woke up the morning after the dance feeling very sick. On his way home Schalk then encounters one of Grieta's other wooers - Frits Pretorious, clearly also suffering from the after effects of the peach brandy. What took the young Schalk by surprise, however, was the fact that Fritz had also received one of Grieta's roses. That, says Schalk, made him "wonder about those finishing schools!"

It was perhaps only then that the penny dropped: both he and Fritz (and many others) had been duped by the guile of Grieta. She relied upon their gullibility to make each one believe that she experienced the same emotions about him - that is to say, that he was the "chosen man."

Greita's guile and the gullibility of the farmers in her area is what makes the story so humorous -an absolute must read!

"Elegantly Disheveled - Adventure to Cuba" by Jess Kempton-Jones

2010-08-19T20:52:00.000+02:00

A recent trip in the June/July holidays took me all across the Atlantic ocean toward a tropical, humid cluster also known as Central America. More specifically, to Cuba, the communistic 'hub' of the world.

Among the many other things that this trip taught me, I realised I could probably never reside in a place like Durban, because the weather is certainly not one of my favourite climes. Although, besides the daily climate, there were many more lessons of substance learned in this strange and exotic country. Cuba was incredible. A really different traveling experience to any I've had before it.

Getting there, for one, is a mission in itself. Almost two full days were dedicated to non-stop journeying on some mode of transport -whether it was by aeroplane, bus or taxi. We finally arrived in Havana city on a warm, muggy and cloudy Sunday afternoon.

There we stayed for two weeks, discovering the old dilapidated city one roaming street at a time.

I am asked by many to try and compare it to something, or somewhere rather, but I am stumped at the thought. It really is like the pictures you see in travel shops and places like Buena Vista: old women staring blankly at the camera with an oversized cigar hanging nonchalantly out of their wrinkled mouths, or, men in Panama hats trying to sell you the latest newspaper copy, which at closer inspection is dated may 2009.

An overwhelming sense of a bygone era looms in Old Havana city. My eyes had never seen such strange and odd sights. Beautiful vintage cars, Dodges, Fords and dilapidated Volkswagens were among the many luxury and exotic vehicles that we seem to throw thousands of rands at in the hopes of owning, yet for these people it appears a boring, every day norm. Sad and dampened-hope faces peered out from the dark shadows of doorways, once properties of lucrative businesses and hotels. Now the once grand architecture of a bustling city is crumbling at the skirtings.

From huge graffiti portraits the great, iconic Cuban hero, Che Guevara, leers watchingly over the people of Havana; one cannot but recognise the prolific attempts at propoganda. The more I think of it the less I am prone to believe that the people of Cuba are happy and content with their curent government. Whenever faced with the burning question,"...and the government? Good? Happy?", a man we met and asked shuffles slightly in his seat, shifts his gaze and nods.

Just nods.
Which gives the impression of some sort of advanced oppression - an oppression that has gotten to the point where there is no great hope for change because every day is the same.

"Cloned Cow Chow" by Lara Kingwill

2010-08-19T14:43:00.000+02:00

If you had driven past Dundee Paratrouper or Dundee Perfect chewing away in a field, you wouldn't have been able to tell that they were different to any other bull. You may have noticed how similar they appear, but you would not expect them to be identical. But they are, in fact, exact replica: clones of a bull in America.

Dundee Paratrouper was slaughtered in July last year and his meat entered the UK food chain, unnoticed by authorities. Dundee Perfect, however, was not so lucky. He was slaughtered on the 27th of July this year, but the Food Standards Agency prevented his meat from reaching the shelves. As news of this incident spread, it has caused a raucous about whether or not cloned meat should be allowed on the shelves, ready for human consumption.

To some, eating something that was alive but not procreated by its own species does not seem to be worth the fuss. The chief of FSA, Tim Smith, has reassured the public that all their tests have shown that eating cloned meat does not cause any health problems for humans and is exactly the same as consuming normal produce. I mean, since the meat is identical (literally) to the rest on the shelf and there are no safety concerns, what's the big deal?

To others, however, it is a provocative issue. The Food Safety authorities claim that there have not been enough tests done to say with full confidence that cloned meat is perfectly safe to eat. In contrast, Professor Hugh Pennington, an expert in food safety from Aberdeen University, claims that the results have been consistent and that "I've got no expectation that any such evidence will ever emerge." Consumer groups have also argued that buyers have a right to know what they are buying. A recent survey showed that 85 % of customers would at least want cloned meat labelled if it were to be legalized.

Perhaps one of the bigger concerns, raised by various campaign and Animal Welfare groups, is that cloning is a cruel and painful process for the animal. Statistics have shown that for every normal cloned birth theire are hundreds of miscarriages or deformed young born. Animals are also modified to their full capacity for industry, to produce more milk or get fatter easier. These transformations stretch the animal to its physical limits.

Many people do not feel it is right for humans to 'play God' in this way. We should not try to change nature to suit our needs. Species need to develop and evolve and cloning limits the progress of this as they are exactly the same. It is limiting biodiversity.

In light of these points, the MP's in the UK voted in favour of a legislation that bans cloned meat and other animal products from being entered into the European Food Supply Chain.

"Untitled" by Matthew Webber

2010-08-19T13:14:00.000+02:00

I like trees
They are cool
If you don't
Then you're a fool

Trees are tiny
Big and small
Play with trees
You'll have a ball

Tie them down
Make them bend
If you're nice
They'll be your friend

You can climb them
Up and down
But don't fall out
Or you will frown

Now everybody
Hug a tree
'Cause if you do
You'll be like me

And if you tell them
That you care
They will go
And a hug a bear

Bears are cuddly
Cute and nice
But I gotta tell you
They don't like mice

'Cause mice are naughty
Crazy beasts
They run around
And have a feast

They steal your lunch
And take your food
They're not even hungry
They just wanna be rude

That is why
I don't like mice
That is why
Mice are not nice.

"Quota corruption" by Sarah de Villiers

2010-08-18T21:52:00.000+02:00

"Mum, do you think I made the team because I'm good, or because I'm black?"

This stumping and awkward question is being raised in households across the country as the quota system manipulates the selection of sports teams and tournaments. From the tender age of seven to international levels of play, the selection of players no longer depends on raw talent and fiery passion, but your ethnical group.

The quota policy dictates that in every competitive sports team a certain pecentageof players and coaching staff must be of colour. This policy has caused much uproar and dispute, as it has been perceived by many as "reverse" or "controlled" racism, favouring particular ethnical groups.

Whilst some raised their hands in frustration because of the injustice, others recoiled in embarrassment. Being chosen based on your skin colour builds a false sense of pride and a deep sense of shame for many "quota" players. These players may be left feeling inadequate or incompetent in their teams. The low self-esteem that develops because of this could be further battered by exclusion or bullying based on the fact that some quota players are perhaps under-qualified.

Their parents feel the blow as they too experience shame in the favouritism and can become socially victimised or excluded. These parents also have to deal with the questions and emotions intertwined with the issue of racism, as well as bullied or distraught children with shattered self-esteems. The parents of the children denied positions could feel fuelled frustration and racism as the effects of apartheid continue to linger in society. These parents may be marginalised and watch helplessly as their children suffer the consequences of a previous generation's mistakes.

The selected team will endure having to carry weaker players and the talent of ethnical players will be called into question, leaving them wondering whether they were chosen based on skill or to filfil a government policy. This sort of doubt disadvantages the team's spirit, performance and unity, but without the meeting quota they would be disqualified from participation in some leagues. Either way, the team will suffer and be unable to reach their full potential.

The players who are denied a position in the team regardless of their talent are left with low self-esteems and a sour taste for the ethnical community. This type of situation spawns hatred, grudges and ultimately racism in the youth, the polar opposite of the government's intention when introducing a law that was intended to give equal opportunities to previously disadvantaged players.

But in attempting to make right the injustices of the past, are they not instead stripping other people of opportunities they truly deserve? We are a democratic country and favour should not be shown based on our past, but on our future.

In a rainbow nation we should see in colour, not in black and white.

Bibliography:
http://definitions.uslegal.com/q/quota-system/
http://www.btimes.co.za/98/1213/colums/columns2.htm
http://www.mg.co.za/article/2005-01-23-sports-quota-law-a-last-resort

"Am I to blame?" by Anonymous

2010-08-18T21:47:00.000+02:00

Little hands
And little feet
No one stopped to consider
The future they were to meet.
Feet kept moving
And hands stretched out
Out there someone cared
But this has left only doubt.

Many days I wondered
Many weeks I dreamed
Many months I cried your name
And asked the question:
Am I to blame?

Memories of fights
Internal scars
I closed my door and
Sought the comfort of music bars.
Forced to look at a picture
Just to see your face
A smoking brain and a racing heart
Pondered on how you'd left without a trace.

Many days I wondered
Many weeks I dreamed
Many months I cried your name
And asked the question:
Am I to blame?

I pray to God
To make it stop.
I'd ask him to make
The pressure drop.
I prayed that you
Were okay.
As a 5 year-old
This to the Lord I'd pray.

Many days I wondered
Many weeks I dreamed
Many months I cried your name
And asked the question:
Am I to blame?

I never stopped praying;
Never stopped pleading.
When my time with you was over-
Again my heart would start bleeding.
When we spoke over the phone
There was no doubt about it
The message in your voice was blame,
But nevertheless I found strength in my shame.

Many days I wondered
Many weeks I dreamed
Many months I cried your name
And asked the question:
Am I to blame?

"You & I" by Anonymous

2010-08-18T21:44:00.000+02:00

It's hard for me to see sometimes
Harder to understand
It's hard for me to live sometimes
Even harder to say "I can"

You come around - renew my strength
You show me the beauty in today
You touch my heart - make it beat again
You teach me to breathe again and it's all okay.

It's hard for me to be sometimes
Harder to fake that I'm alright
It's hard for me to care sometimes
Even harder for me to try

You come around - take my hand
You show me that I can walk that extra mile
You lead me to the right path again
You teach me how to smile

It's hard for me to speak sometimes
Harder to make a sound
It's hard for me to pick myself up sometimes
Even harder to find solid ground

You come around - hold me tight
You show me how love should be
You remind me who I am again
You teach me to sing that sweet melody.

"Has P Diddy run out steam?" by Ricky Klopper

2010-08-18T21:26:00.002+02:00

Peter de Villiers has, since his controversiall appointment as Springbok coach, never been far away from the headlines. His often perplexing way of communicating his views onrugby and life in general, has always kept the media at his fingers. Diddy supplies the press with a constant flow of "Devillierisms" which cause uproar in the press, like his famous "garage owner comparison" or his views on Schalk Burger's eye gouging. The Springboks have relinquished their Tri Nations title already and the country has almost entirely forgotten last year's results. So, the question is, should Peter de Villiers go?

The answer, in my opinion, is no. Peter de Villiers was, and remains a good "coach". I am hesitant to call him a "coach" because, is that really what he, or any other international team's "coach" is? They are in essence, the player's managers as most of the so-called "coaching" is done by backline, forward, defensive and kicking coaches. The primary role of the head coach is to select, and then get the best out of, his players. The head coach is also concerned with the essential tactics and style of a team. When questioning de Villiers' position, one should assess him on his performance in these areas, which contrary to popular belief, has been admirable.

Taking over as coach of the world champions is not easy, especially when the media and public immediately label you as a "quota" selection because of your skin colour. Corne Krige, the former Springbok captain, predicted "seven lean years" after de Villiers's appointment as coach and many other rugby "experts" questioned his ability. Peter de Villiers was unfortunately on the back foot from the start. De Villiers's selection may have been questionable, but he came into the job with a greater pedigree than his predecessor, Jake White. De Villiers had led the Under 21 Springboks to world titles and the Emerging Springboks to the Nations Cup as well as coaching various teams at Currie Cup level. While Jake White joined with a short spell as coach of the SA under 21 team being his only experience as head coach of a first-class team.

De Villiers immediately sparked controversey when he announced that he would take the team to "new heights" by adding a new attacking dimension to their game. Experts insisted that De Villiers should stay with Jake White's formula of a defence-orientated game and these opinions seemed vindicated when the Springboks' Tri Nations hopes disappeared with two games remaining. The last game of the Tri Nations, a 53 - 8 thrashing of Australia, gave the country a glimpse of de Villiers's attacking game and subsequent victories in Europe showed his ability to adopt different styles for the team when necessary.

2009 saw a change in approach from the Springboks due to law changes that had been introduced half way through 2008, which made them rely more on kicking and positional play. this approach was highly successful, with the Springboks winning the Tri Nations and the Lions Series. the Springboks had a 100 % record against New Zealand for only the second time ever, a feat that Jake white never achieved. During this time, although some recognition was given to de Villiers, there were still murmurs that the Springboks were overly reliant on Jake White's players and that de Villiers had nothing to do with their success. John Smit, and other senior Springboks, denied this and attributed the team's success to the team's morale which de Villiers was instrumental in creating.

Peter de Villiers's greatest strength is his relationship with his players. His greatest weakness, in my opinion, is his relationship with those outside the team, particularly the press. De villiers's first language is Afrikaans, and it is often clear that he finds it difficult to accurately express himself to the English press. This often leads to misinterpretation and has helped create his image as a "clown". He is a very honest speaker and can surely, even by his greatest detractors, not be accused of not admitting his own mistakes.

No one can decide whether Peter de Villiers is "the right man for the job", but I feel that he has and still is being unfairly judged by South Africans and our other Southern Hemisphere counterparts, Australia and New Zealand.

Peter de Villiers will remain in the spotlight for as long as he remains Springbok coach and I doubt the controversies will ever stop. There is no denying the man's faults, but I feel his ability to get the best out of his players gives him an edge that few other coaches have.

Only the future will tell whether I am correct.

"A simple mistake" by Gabriella Llennity

2010-08-18T21:02:00.000+02:00

"It was only a simple mistake," mother would say to me each time father cheated on her. I could see she resented my father, but it would be too much of an embarrassment for mother, since her only friends were of high society. The other reason she stayed with father was because of my sister, Angela, and I. She didn't want us to come from a broken home or to see that her marriage was a failure, even though we could hear them screaming and shouting at each other every night.

We never saw father much, and when we did he was always too busy to spend time with us. Mother always tried to teach us to stand our ground against people who caused trouble for us; she did not want her babies making the same mistakes she had already made. If father ever did something wrong it was always a 'simple mistake'. If we ever did anything wrong, we were disciplined, and were taught the right way. Not like father. We were not let off as easily as father was. My mother believed in us, which I could see in her. Everything she did was usually for Angela and I. Father worked for a big important company so whenever there were suppers or evening parties, we were summoned to silence unless spoken to.

Mother was very displeased with father's work, as every few years it meant that we would have to move to another town. Father's boss had big ideas for him, so it means we simply had to obey. I do not believe mother was ever happy in her marriage. She probably only faked it when father needed her to impress his boss or his own high society friends.

If Angela or I ever became scared we could turn to mother for absolutely anything. I loved that about her. I wonder who she turns to when something bad happens to her; since grandmother and grandfather have both already passed, she does not really have many people to turn to. I do not suppose her friends would ever really care either. They are all to worried about themselves to be concerned about mother. That is what husbands are supposed to be for, I suppose, but mother was deprived of that benefit in marriage. I suppose that is what builds a person; makes them stronger. I suppose that is why mother is the way she is.

It is rather unfortunate. Mother deserves better than father, though she keeps putting up with his "dealings". As the daughter of a well established and respected man, I suppose I should have respect for him but I do not. I wonder what Angela thinks of father. Although I do not suppose she knows how to diagnose the whole situation.

I wonder why father cheats on mother so much. I wonder if he even still loves her, and why he even remains in their marriage.

When we were younger, Angela and I would be sent off to our Aunt Grace, mother's sister. From the very beginning Aunt Grace had despised father. She simply could not stand him, she knew it would never work but mother was young and in love. Mother and father sent us to aunt Grace because they said that they needed some "alone time" which did not mean together to build their relationship, what it really meant was that mother was getting tired of life and needed to go the spa and father was probably home and could not deal with us so they would send us to aunt Grace. the only reason that mother was becoming tired of life was because father's dealings were like fire to mother, and she was helpless wood. These dealings would slowly eat away at her until she turned to ash and needed some rejuvenating. they worked from the outside in, melting her down piece by piece. Mother and father's fights are the smoke of the fire, the outcome of father's 'dealings'.

Father's number one priority was his job and then his possessions. One time, when I was younger, I took some papers off father's desk and started drawing. When father discovered me decorating his documents, I tried to make the same as him, I said, "But daddy, it was only a mistake."

Well, that definitely did not work in the same way as when father said it to mother. From that day on I never took anything from his office, or anything he owned for a matter of fact, ever, ever again. I can still remember his face when he found me, enraged, full of anger he grabbed me and said, "Do not ever touch my things again Abigail. Understood?"
I could not even look into his eyes; he scared me to death that day.

I wonder why mother even married him in the first place. And if father ever really loved mother. Perhaps they were in love at first, and it just slowly faded because of father's job. It must have, because they rarely ever even hold hands or hug one another, and father always speaks to mother in a very monotonous voice. Perhaps I was a mistake, a summer romance that went wrong, and they were forced to get married, and then to make it all look real they had Angela. I wonder perhaps if my father's parents' relationship was the same, and that's where father learned all this.

Perhaps mother did not know in the beginning about father's dealings. Perhaps it only started when father stopped showing any affection to mopther, or perhpas he never did show any affection at all to mother because his life ended when mother got pregnant. Perhaps their whole marriage and Angela and mother and I were all just another big mistake.

PIE, anyone?

2010-08-18T20:22:00.005+02:00

Ƿē biddaþ þē, ēalā lārēoƿ ðæt þū tǣce ūs ſprecan riȝte!

/we: bɪdaθ ðe: ɛalɑ lɑrɛɔw ðat θʊ: tæ:tʃə us sprɛkan riχt/

"we ask you, teacher, that you teach us to speak correctly!"

Part 1 of 5 : the English Language Series

In this series we explore the origin of the English language. Although it will be relatively brief, the coverage will be wide: from the most ancient form, to the most current manifestation of the English language. "PIE, anyone?" serves both as an introduction to this series, but also as an overview of English's most ancient ancestor.

When most people are asked what the history of English is, their reply can be represented as follows:

Latin → Shakespearean "Old" English → Modern English.

Some may even say:

Hebrew → Latin → Shakespearean "Old" English → Modern English.

In my experience, after offering this answer the person feels proud of their historical outline. And all those who heard agree that their English History is correct. But it is not.
I am not a linguist, but I do know enough about Historical linguistics and English to confidently tell you that it is not.

Firstly, Shakespearean is Modern English. What we speak now is álso Modern English. Old English, or Anglo-Saxon, is much older. The introductory line: "wē biddaþ þē..." is Old English. Secondly, English is not a daughter language of Latin. Thirdly, Hebrew isn't even closely related to English or Latin. Hebrew and Latin's great-great grandparents were neighbours - but that's as close as they get.

***

To describe the history of English, we need to start at the very beginning: we start with Proto-Indo-European. Proto-Indo-European (or PIE) is the "mother" of all the languages of the Indo-European Language Family.

Indo-European (IE) is the largest and most widespread of all the language families. It consists of about 150 languages and has over 3 billion speakers.

IE is split into ten sub-families. Within each sub-family I will list only the most well known languages.

1) ALBANIAN

2) ANATOLIAN
All these languages are extinct. They were spoken in the Middle East and records of these languages survive from about 1600 BCE. These languages are famous for the Cuneiform writing system.
-Hittite; Luwian

3) ARMENIAN

4) BALTO-SLAVIC
-Baltic: Old Prussian; Latvian; Lithuanian
-Slavic: Ukranian; Polish; Czech-Slovak; Croatian; Serbian...

5) INDO-IRANIAN
-Iranian: Persian/Farsi; Kurdish; Pashto (yes, this language is in The Kite Runner).
-Indo-Aryan: Although many languages in this group are spoken in India, not all the languages of India are IE. Most of them are part of an unrelated language family called the Dravidian Family.
-Sanskrit; Hindi; Urdu; Bengali; Punjabi

6) TOCHARIAN
Tocharian A; Tocharian B are the only languages in this group. They were spoken in the Xinjiang region of China. Both languages are now extinct... and they had very creative names :Þ

As we get closer to Modern English, the following languages will become more and more important. These are the groups that English interacted with greatly. Some of them left undeniable influences upon English:

7) CELTIC
The Celts were the original inhabitants of France and Britain. The Romans kicked them out of France and the Saxons kicked them off England. The surviving Celtic languages are endangered and spoken by few people in Ireland, Scotland and Wales.
-Welsh; Irish; Gaelic; Cornish; Breton

8) HELLENIC
-Greek and Grecian dialects.

9) ITALIC
The Italic languages are probably the most famous langauges in the world.
-Umbrian; Oscan (both dead)
-Latin: French; Spanish; Portuguese; Italian; Romanian; Sardinian.

10) GERMANIC
English technically belongs to this Family! I deliberately put 'Anglo-Saxon', not "English" under West-Germanic. This will become apparent as the series unfolds.
-East: Visigothic; Ostrogothic; Vandal (all dead)
-North: Icelandic; Danish; Swedish; Norwegian
-West: German; Dutch; Afrikaans; Frisian; Anglo-Saxon.

Here I add some reconstructed PIE words!
Notice the bolded similarities in the PIE root and the modern word. Phonological change can only obscure so much!

*-kʷe = [and] = Latin: -que \ Old Greek: -qe \ Sanskrit: ca

*(d)kmtóm = [100] = Latin: centum \ English: hundred \ Greek: hekatón

*(h)yêro = English: year \ Dutch: jaar \ Latin: hōrnus \ Slavonic: jara \ Avestan: yārə

*(s)ker- = [cut] = English: shear \ Lithuanian: skiriù \ Greek: keírô \ Norse: skort \ Hittite: kartai- Armenian: k'erem

HERE ENDS THE DISCUSSION OF PIE

next: the Germanic Family, and English's place therein.

"The Autopsy of Nelson Mandela" by Adam Hendricks

2010-08-11T21:25:00.000+02:00

Many know of Nelson Mandela, fewer of his feats, and even fewer of what he did for South Africa as a nation. Nonetheless, even some of those who perceive themselves to be great thinkers have misunderstood the significance of this mortal and his influence.

Rolihlahla Mandela spent 67 years of his life fighting for the greater good of humanity. Twenty-seven of those years he spent in prison. He continues, to this day, to fight for humanity. Mandela is an international icon and an example to all true South Africans.

Yuill Damaso, however, clearly thinks otherwise. He crafted a sacrilegious painting depicting a deceased Nelson Mandela surrounded by select members of past and present parliament. This work was designed as a parody of Rembrandt's "The Anatomy Lecture of Dr. Nicholaes Tulp", but falls horribly short of the Dutch master's standards, albeit a 'work in progress'.

The work of Damaso sparked international outrage, supported by many South Africans. Damaso himself states that he does not apologise for the painting and that his message is for the government to wake up and see what life will be like without Mandela holding the nation together. As per usual, Damaso -like so many- has failed to comprehend the full consequences of his actions.

Most of this nation's population are people of colour. A large percentage of this sector of the public extol Mandela as he 'saved' them from Apartheid -when in fact he saved all South Africans because the country was on the verge of civil war nearing the end of Apartheid, and Mandela doused that flame. Therefore, many white citizens also realise that they live their peaceful lives, and most of them affluently, thanks in part to Mandela.

Furthermore, most of this country's population are uneducated and will not understand the underlying message of Damaso's work. Many of those still uneducated are people of colour who may still harbour resentment towards the previously privileged white population. All this painting accomplishes is stirring up fresh hatred between different races in our country -although, supposedly, this outcome was far from the artist's intentions.

Let us take a look at the real 'big picture': Damaso creates a controversial painting. The painting sparks an uproar in the leading governing party. The supporters of that party are therefore also infuriated. Inevitably, the blame is placed at the foot of white racism, which breeds black hatred. This self-perpetuating racism is what may again lead to a huge and irreversible rift between the white population and the people of colour in South Africa.

In conclusion, I find Damaso's work extremely disrespectful and feel that he needs to wake up and realise that the world is not always one's oyster. One day an artist just like him may be the final straw on the camel's back, because in truth we must know that our fragile society is much less robust than we idealise it to be.

"The Hair Debate" by Peter Turner

2010-08-11T21:14:00.000+02:00

Over the past three and a half years during which I have attended this magnificent institution, I have heard many a student complain about the policies that the school has with regards to the length of boys' hair. It must be said that high school students from all over complain about many things regarding their schools, and school in general. Most of these complaints are of no real substance and are merely voiced to either make conversation or simply to climb up the popularity ladder.

This particular argument, however, has captured my attention as I think that when it comes to this subject, the majority of the school population - the students - have a strong case. However, to be taken in the least bit seriously by the people who matter, the student body has to acknowledge the opposing argument and find a way to persuade them that the students' case is strong enough to be considered over theirs'. This is why I have decided to, in as non-biased a manner as possible, look at both sides of the argument.

The school's main argument against any hair cut that does not make the wearer look like a cue ball is that it fits with our uniform. They do have a point in saying this: if you take a look at most institutions that require uniform, there are hair regulations as well. There is no deying that short hair does make us look... smart.

Another reason for the rules about hair is that the school does not want its students walking around with hair so long that it borders on unhygeinic or even disturbs learning.

Fair enough, these are two valid points; maybe there should be rules regarding hair, but are such strict ones necessary?

Yes, our short, neatly trimmed hair does go rather nicely with our uniforms. However, I'm sure that with a bit of effort we would look just as neat, if not nicer, with long hair. Many people like to express their individuality through their appearance and through how they wear their hair. I think if students were able to do this the people in our school would actually relate to each other on a more meaningful level: many students feel self-conscious and are therefore afraid to be themselves because of the way they think that everyone views them. Much of the time this fear is brought about by something as trivial as how they look. Giving people the freedom to wear their hair the way they would like to, could help them overcome this self-consciousness and give them the confidence to be themselves during school.

Looking back on Leonard's article on Chapel and how the reason for attending Chapel may just be the school's attempt to try and create a good public image, could the reasons for strict rules about hair not be for the same reason? I think that visitors to our school would appreciate sending their children to a place where they can have a general sense of belonging and be allowed to express themselves rather than seeing their children limited to routine and, let's face it, somewhat old fashioned rituals of wearing uniform and having to shave their hair before the start of every term.

In my opinion, there should be no regulation length for our hair, as long as looks neat and smart it should be allowed. Teachers should, of course, retain the authority to decide whether or not we need a haircut, but this decision should not be taken on the length of the hair alone. The rule should simply state that the students' hair should be presentable, however long they choose to grow it.

Of course I am aware that this will cause a lot of conflict as students will complain if they are told to have a haircut whereas their longer-haired friends may not have to. Yes, we would have to figure out a few ways to establish fair criteria for having to have a haircut. It would be more difficult to establish than the strict rules that we have now, but in my opinion, it would be worth it.

While this may be considered a somewhat trivial subject, it is important that all matters being aired are discussed thoroughly and that every individual is free to join in on the discussion.

"If rainbows smiled rather than frowned" by Sarah de Villiers

2010-08-11T21:11:00.000+02:00

If rainbows smiled rather than frowned,
If balloons didn't float away,
and bubbles never popped.

If we laughed with the clowns,
and could keep our heads in the clouds.
If we skipped around barefoot,
And chased the butterflies.

If flowers blossomed all year long,
And ice-creams never melted.
If stars could twinkle for forever and a day,
And sand-castles didn't wash away.

If we freed our hearts,
And opened our minds.
If we all smiled
Rather than frowned.

"Painting the Town: Part 1" by H Hamilton

2010-08-08T21:42:00.001+02:00

Today we have so many ways to express ourselves: we update our facebook status, twitter and blog. The internet lets us feel like the world is listening, but the truth is that they're probably not. We can paint a picture or write a poem, but to get any real recognition we have to follow some kind of standard regulation and hope for the best that someone will see our talent.

When artists paint the walls of the town they are not only using a canvas that society is forced to see, they are using it to say 'this is who we are and this is what we have to say.'

Please peruse the following pics of the latest graffiti to hit the streets of Cape Town and enjoy the visual stimulus.

www.paintingthetown.co.za

"A Shaft of Light" by A Hendricks

2010-08-02T15:28:00.000+02:00

Silence filled the dense air. Time slowed. I felt my heartbeat in my ears. Across the room I could see nothing. Darkness. Emptiness. The likes of which no human can imagine. I had been here for so long, I reeked of it. Years of decay and neglect. Incomprehensible pain and suffering. Torment beyond recognition. Before I laughed; now I cry. Prison is horror and I its victim.

I sit in a corner. It is uncomfortable. It is my home. My life was destroyed long ago. Nothing can take away the misery. My family was my only source of joy. My children gifts from Heaven. I loved them more than life itself.

Governments, police, enforcers... I was once one of them. Now I despise them. They cause me this life. I live in solitary because of them. I lost my way, my family and my life because of them.

I am old and weak. A remnant of a lost race. I cannot walk. My hands bleed. My feet rot. My soul is dead.

I once believed in God. He used to love me. I used to pray and speak to him. He betrayed me. He allowed them to take my family. They raped my wife and slit her throat. They dismembered my children and burnt them on stakes. They broke my bones and left me to die.

As I sit, I stare into the darkness. It speaks to me. Tells me of my family: how they miss me. I cannot take it any longer. For twenty years I sat in this spot. Every night the darkness torments me. I am helpless and weak. It has developed a hold on me.

The people I killed haunt me. I see their faces. They stare at me in pity. They pity the old man waiting to die. All I wish is to be free of this place. To be free of anxiety. To be free of the torment of my mind.

As I stare into the darkness, a voice beckons me. I see a pair of familiar eyes in the darkness -a familiar nose and smile. I must be dreaming. I am not. My son speaks to me and commands me to stand. I do. He tells me it's all over. He says I am free. I am told to look up. A powerful voice speaks to me. I see a bright shaft of white light. It consumes me, yet I cannot feel it.
The light lifts a part of me I have not known for a very long time. That part leaves me. I see it rise and become lost in the light.

As the light fades I feel empty. More than ever. My soul is gone. It has been taken. I have no memory, but I do not care. I am very tired. As I close my eyes I breathe in the cold, and as I exhale, I know that that breath is my last.

"We are alive because..." by N Dekker

2010-08-02T15:12:00.000+02:00

What makes us alive? Is it the chemical composition of our body, and the pumping of our hearts? Or is it something more? Is there a reason that we are alive, a special purpose; different for each individual? Many have tried to answer these questions and the mere question of why we are alive fascinates many. We are alive because... any ideas? In fact, how do we even know we are alive if we were never dead?

What makes us aware of the things around us? What makes us ask these questions and then try, painstakingly, to answer them? We learn in school that we have a heart and that the heart pumping blood and oxygen through our bodies keeps us alive. Only what does it mean to be alive? A more complicated metaphysical theory tries to answer this question. It states that everything is alive. All things are made up of energy and our senses interpret this energy. Science says that for something to be alive it has to have movement, be able to grow and reproduce. Specifically, it has to move by itself.

Another definition is somewhat narrow-minded; it states that only beings who can realise that they exist, are alive. This definition manages to exclude bacteria, plants and animals as we don't know if they realise that they exist, yet we know that they are alive. So this definition makes little sense. All these various definitons tell us that yes, we are alive. But why are we alive? That is something scientists have not yet been able to agree upon.

Are we alive because we want to be? Surely, to give up the will to live is to stop living. If this is the case, what makes you want to live? Your family, your friends, your hobbies, your passions... what? Harold Thurman, a philospher, said, "Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs, is people who have come alive."

What makes you feel alive? Pain, happiness, love, joy... all these feelings make us feel alive. If they make us feel alive, does the ability to feel them make us alive? The word alive is defined as having life. The word life is defined as the condition that distinguishes organisms from inorganic objects and dead organisms, being manifested by growth through metabolism, reproduction and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally. Whatever that means, it explains a lot and leaves even more questions unanswered.

The idea of there being a purpose to life and a reason for our existence past biological reasoning is not a new one. I believe that everything happens for a reaon, both the good and the bad. If I believe this then it's not dificult to believe that there is a reason that we are alive. Richard Bach said, "Here is a test to find whether your mission on earth is finished; if you're alive, it isn't."

Do the questions actually matter? Dr. Seuss said, "Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple." Is this the case with the question of why we are alive? Are we making things seem more complicated than they really are? Maybe, maybe some day somebody will find the answers, but it's so much fun trying to figure them out. Imagine if there was just one solid answer to this question... so many hours of wondering about it would be spared! What would people do with all that spare time? Maybe, maybe it's better not knowing and asking these questions again and again, as the way that you choose to answer them is the only answer that really matters.

Morrie Schwartz said, "So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half asleep, even when they're busy doing things they think are important. This is because they're chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning in your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning."

"Just how expressive may artists in today's society be?" by Ellen Agnew

2010-07-28T21:30:00.000+02:00

After reading an article on how an artwork had been rejected from a display for being too "offensive", I came to wonder about just how expressive artists in today's society may be?

With all the xenophobia in South Africa at the moment, and taking our apartheid past into consideration, race is a touchy subject and freedom of expression is being more frequently conserved as artists are having to question just how much freedom they are allowed.

Ayanda Mabulu's somewhat controversial paintings depicting apartheid South Africa and the late AWB leader, Eugene Terre 'Blanche, as a pig were brushed off as being "offensive" and were not allowed to go on display. The artist argued that it was not his aim to disrespect the late AWB leader, but rather to depict and "show the filthiness of that era." The organisers of the display claimed that they did not wish to cause controversy amongst the people working in their building and "felt apprehensive about the situation."

Although we are living in a society more open to the unusual portrayal of thoughts and ideas, controversy over our apartheid past seems to be taking it one step too far. It seems as though artists are having to pay the price for an audience's comfort by giving up their expressive freedom.

"Broken Beach" by S Storey

2010-07-28T20:07:00.000+02:00

The sand between my toes
is reassuring,
but not comforting.
The jagged rocks taunt me;
bringing to my mind
unwanted memories.
I take another step
towards the water.

Please.
Bleach my thoughts,
taint them with hope.
Howl through my ears, wind,
and drown out my sorrows.
I feel unheard
as the broken glass and shells
cut my feet
like broken dreams
shred lives.
I take another step
into the water.

The waves wash away the blood,
the pain and despair.
The salt stings,
but cleans the wound,
healing.
A lonely seagull echoes my silent cries.
My salty tears stain my cheeks.
The waves hit the shore,
Crashing steadily,
like my beating heart.
I take another step,
My cleansed soul
finding peace.